


Second Chance Stories

by startraveller776



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: A collection of unrelated drabbles/one shots all centered on the pairing of Regina Mills and Robin Hood. Various genres. Summaries, ratings, genres, and warnings (if needed) are listed in the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Hook and Emma brought someone back from the dead just when Robin has found his soul mate, leaving him caught in the turmoil of wanting her happiness even if it will cost him his own. 
> 
> Rating: K+/PG  
Genre: Angst, Romance, Canon Divergence AU (Season 4)

**CONSEQUENCES**

It’s the crack of a fallen branch that gives Robin away. He’d been observing the dark-haired man through a thicket of trees, debating the virtues of making a stealthy retreat or revealing himself. The former feels like cowardice, but the latter would be a pointless exercise in sizing his masculinity against the other under the guise of polite conversation.

Unfortunately, it turns out that a code of honor doesn’t eradicate infantile jealousy.

The decision is made for him, however, with the snap of wood beneath his boot. His quarry glances up, brows furrowing as he scans the forest, and Robin blows out a mute breath as he steps into view. He doesn’t smile. He can’t. Not while facing the resurrected past of the woman who is—was—supposed to be his future.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he explains. “My men and I patrol the woods near town. This place seems to attract trouble.” And heartache as he’s intimately discovering.

Daniel nods. (_“Daniel?” she exclaimed in a voice stained with shock, with tears_.) “You’re Robin, right? The outlaw?”

Robin’s jaw clenches at this. He’s not ashamed of what he’s become, but the moniker makes him feel suddenly less in contrast to a man who never walked in crooked paths—who hadn’t lived long enough to wrestle with the unsavory choice between two or more evils, the test of character that comes to all men and women eventually.

“Robin of Locksley,” he says, though he doesn’t add his typical “at your service” to his introduction. He doesn’t bow, doesn’t offer to shake. He knows he’s above such pettiness—he’s even made peace with the old Sheriff of Nottingham, after a manner—but his misery is too raw to extend a hand of friendship to this man yet.

“Henry,” Daniel says the boy’s name as if he’s bewildered that Regina has a pubescent son, “showed me your story. I guess your legend was after my time.” He shakes his head with a rueful chuckle, and sympathy takes up insidious residence in Robin’s chest, chastising him for his petulant envy.

He sits next to the other man, casting a glance at the worn storybook resting on Daniel’s lap. How much of it had he read? Does he know what befell his beloved after his demise? Including the man who recently had possession of her heart? “I imagine all of this has been rather—,” Robin pauses, searching for the right word, “—confounding for you.”

Daniel gives him a bitter smile. “Confounding,” he replies. “That’s one way to put it.” He rubs his palms across the book. “Everything is different. Everyone is different. This world…”

“I know,” Robin agrees. “I’ve only recently come over, myself. It takes some getting used to.”

Daniel makes a noise of agreement. Several uncomfortable heartbeats pass with nothing but the ambient sounds of the forest. Robin has always had a gift of discerning the true measure of those who have crossed his path, and the man seated next to him, gripping that book as though it is his anchor to reality, is a good man. Robin wishes he wasn’t, though. Because then he wouldn’t be on the cusp of losing his second chance to her first. He should want her happiness above all—above his own—but he cannot help harboring the secret desire that he will somehow be a part of that much sought for ending.

“She told me to read this,” Daniel says, broaching the silence. “Regina. She said I needed to know what happened after I—” He frowns, blows out a sigh before looking at Robin with a somber gaze. “Did you know her when she…”

“When she was called the Evil Queen?” Robin finishes for him. He regrets this, too—the dark hope that Daniel won’t understand, won’t be able to reconcile her black past with the pure creature he loved once. Robin can give that to her; he bears the scars from his own journey through hell. “Aside from the occasional brush with her black knights, I didn’t know her then.”

He thinks of when he did know her. In the Enchanted Forest when she shot invectives at him with the same lethal accuracy which he fires arrows from his bow. He recalls how she drove him to the brink of madness at times, and yet, in the quiet moments when she believed she was alone, he witnessed the grief she hid beneath her mask of a haughty royal. He was compelled to ease her suffering. He remembers their second first meeting in Storybrooke—the instant, overwhelming attraction to her. His inexplicable drive to be near her, to know her, to protect her. He can recount with aching exactness the sound of her heart beating in the palm of his hand, the taste of her lips on his, the caress of her fingers over the crest inked into his forearm as she told him they were soul mates. All of this ripped from him mere hours later as Daniel gathered her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“This,” Daniel says, awakening Robin from his despondent reflections, “is distressing.” He opens the book, leafs through several pages. He stops at the image of Regina being fitted for a wedding gown, traces the forced impassivity in her expression, the veil of tears hinting in her lashes. “Look at what I did to her.”

Robin’s hopes splinter at the ghost of anguish and regret radiating from the other man. He shouldn’t have doubted that Regina’s first love would be just as loyal, as compassionate as he is. He bears the weight of this crushing revelation with the last vestige of his dignity. “It’s a gift,” he says, “to be loved so deeply.” Would that she loved him as much.

“Is it?” Daniel counters. “This isn’t what I wanted for her. I would have wanted her to find happiness again.” His brows draw together before going on, “I suppose it wouldn’t have been easy, though, not with her mother and the Dark One conspiring against her. I wish I could have saved her from all of this pain.”

It’s a noble wish—far nobler than Robin’s wishes of late—but it’s naïve. “It gave her Henry.” _And me_, Robin leaves unsaid. “We are shaped by our worst experiences as much as we are by our best moments—perhaps more so. She is exceptionally resilient, more than she realizes.”

Daniel’s chin drops as his fingers splay over the page. “You’re right,” he says. “She’s always been incredible.”

The affection in his tone is a dagger slipping between Robin’s ribs. He was a fool to believe he could compete with the one who had faith in her first, who stirred that initial blush of love, of hopes and dreams. He can’t bring himself to stand aside entirely for Daniel, though, no matter how honorable the act would be. Not until she makes her choice. For her, Robin will cut out his own heart and deliver it up as a sacrifice.

“Do you love her?” Daniel asks. When Robin stares at him, uncertain that he heard the question correctly, Daniel clarifies, “She told me about you, too. Do you love her?”

“Do you?” Robin deflects. He isn’t about to lay bare this truth when he’s already too vulnerable.

Daniel cocks his head as though the answer should be obvious. “Yes, of course,” he says. “It’s only been a few days for me.”

Robin gives him a sad smile and offers him this wrenching confession: “For me as well.” He stands before the other man can respond. “I need to resume my patrol.” (He needs to escape.) “You’re all right finding your way back to town?” Back to her.

Daniel glances northward, toward the road concealed beyond the tree line, and nods. “Thank you.” He turns back to Robin. “For everything you’ve done for her.”

Robin says nothing, merely dips his head in acknowledgement before fading into the forest.

* * *

She appears at the edge of camp when the moon has reached its zenith in the clear night sky. She is an angel come to be his salvation or condemnation. He’s not prepared for the final verdict, though. He knows he will survive if her choice isn’t him—he has much to live for: his men, his son—but he doesn’t want to _have_ to. Not yet.

He closes the gap between them, counting each step as though they are leading him to the gallows. He clenches his hands to keep from touching her, from holding her as he murmurs her name.

“You talked with Daniel today,” she says without preamble. Her eyes glisten with turmoil, and Robin should be embarrassed by the relief that swells within him over her struggle. He isn’t. He hasn’t lost her. Hope still burns.

“He loves you,” he admits, and emboldened, adds, “And so do I.”

He captures her beautiful face in both of his hands, draws her into a kiss imbued with his longing, his fears, his desire. He wants to be her partner, her greatest advocate. Her haven. He wants a thousand more moments like this, to fall asleep with her in his arms, to wake with her head pillowed on his chest. He wants trips to the ice cream shop with Roland between them, lunches at Granny’s diner. He wants to learn whether she snores, whether she’s ticklish. He wants to endure her biting retorts when she’s lost her temper, and he wants to make her laugh in spite of that anger.

He wants what they should have had before fate intervened.

Choose me. Choose _me_.

(The same plea that his rival likely makes.)

The kiss ends too soon, and with wet cheeks, he presses his forehead against hers. “No goodbyes, Regina” he whispers in a fractured voice. “Not tonight.”

He releases her and walks away.

**~FIN~**


	2. Forget Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s drawn to her, though he doesn’t know why. Not until his young son mentions a history with the former Evil Queen that Robin has no recollection of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/PG  
Genres: Angst (with a resolution), Memory Loss, Season 4 Canon Divergence AU

**FORGET ME NOT**

Bells jangle as Robin opens the door to the diner. Roland wanted a cheeseburger, begged for it with a dimpled smile. Robin is turning out to be a poor father with how often he spoils his little man, but in truth, he has grown rather fond of the meal as well. And considering the upset in their lives as late, Robin can hardly be blamed for succumbing so easily to his son’s guile.

Emma leans against the breakfast counter, exchanging words with a dark haired woman in a hushed argument. The Evil Queen—or once was, as the story goes. He doesn’t know her personally, never had any cause to, but it’s difficult for him to imagine the woman with sad eyes as the same monarch who had swept through the Enchanted Forest with terror and destruction in her wake. The same monarch who had, apparently, executed his Marian.

But that, too, doesn’t sit quite right with him. Not that he doesn’t believe—he does. And neither because Emma miraculously saved his wife from the Evil Queen’s clutches. (Only to be cursed by another malevolent sovereign, but that is a matter he’d prefer not to dwell on at the moment.) No, it’s an inexplicable sort of disassociation between lore and reality he feels when his gaze meets the former queen’s.

Perhaps it is merely that this new realm seems to be a land of second chances. After all, his family is whole again—or will be when he finds a way to vanquish the Snow Queen’s curse. It stands to reason that the Evil Queen might have found a new beginning for herself as well.

“Mary Margaret made the same mistake,” Emma’s frustrated voice reaches his ears as he and Roland take a booth nearby, “and it backfired on her.”

“She was a lovesick fool who couldn’t bear the thought of Charming marrying someone else,” the other woman returns with derision thick in her tone. “This is hardly the same thing, Miss Swan. Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“It_ is_ the same thing,” Emma argues. “You can’t just erase the past without consequences!”

“Oh, I’m intimately aware of the consequences.” The queen shakes her head, though Robin can’t see her face. Quite a beautiful face as he recalls from his brief glimpses of her. “You made this mess, and you don’t get to complain about how I try to clean it up.”

It’s then that Emma sees him, and he feels guilty for inadvertently eavesdropping. He ducks his head in silent apology. The other woman turns to follow Emma’s gaze and—oh, yes. She’s really rather stunning, isn’t she? And quite troubled by his presence as she often has been in the rare times they’ve crossed paths. Is it guilt over Marian? He wants to tell her that he bears her no ill will, that he doesn’t mean to be a reminder of the dark past she is clearly attempting to move on from. But he’s never able to get a word of greeting out before she’s fleeing him.

This afternoon will be no different by the panic tightening the corners of her eyes. Her escape this time, however, is oddly impeded by his son.

“Regina!” Roland exclaims with naked delight. The boy is out of his seat and dashing headlong into her legs before Robin can catch him.

“I’m sorry, milady. I—” Robin begins, but Roland speaks over him.

“You were going to take me to the park, remember?” He gives her a hopeful smile. “Can we go today?”

Robin frowns as horror washes over the queen’s—over _Regina’s_ features. How is it that Roland knows her name, speaks as though he’s had some previous association with her outside of this first meeting? Roland has only ever been his care or tended by Little John. Unless—

_You can’t just erase the past without consequences_.

Robin’s frown deepens. They couldn’t have possibly been talking about _him_. The notion is ridiculous. Why ever should she have taken his memories? Had he been bent on vengeance over Marian? If that were so, he doubts his son would greet her with such ease.

She’s extricated herself from Roland’s grasp with a muttered apology and out of the diner before Robin can think to pose his queries aloud. Emma lets out a sigh of exasperation, but offers no explanation before leaving too.

He stares after them, confused—_alarmed_—but a tug on his sleeve draws his attention back to his little boy.

“Can I have a milkshake?” Roland asks.

This is another area where Robin really ought to stop caving to his boy’s pleas, but— “You can have one,” he says, lifting Roland back into his seat, “if you tell me about Regina.”

Roland giggles as though his father has said something silly. “But _you_ know Regina!”

Robin smiles despite the dread prickling in his middle. “Let’s play a game,” he says, “and pretend that Daddy’s forgotten.”

“Okay,” Roland agrees, though it’s obvious that he finds the entire affair dubious at best. “One time, she caught a flying monkey that was going to eat me and turned it into a doll. And then you sneaked into the castle with her, but I didn’t get to come because you made me stay with Uncle John.”

Robin listens as his son recounts every encounter with Regina in as much detail as an exuberant five-year-old can muster. Each tale is like a lead weight sinking into the pit of Robin’s stomach—turning sour when Roland speaks of Daddy and Regina kissing (yucky, he says) and then Mommy was home.

Kissing? Robin supposes it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Regina _is_ attractive, very much so, and if this all occurred before Marian’s surprise return, then there would have been no dishonor in the interlude. But why remove his recollections? He cannot believe he would have asked her to, not when he’s aware of the exorbitant price that comes with using magic.

Roland turns the conversation to attending school with the other children of Storybrooke in the fall, and Robin tries pay heed to the boy’s disjointed ramblings. But the pesky questions won’t leave him be. They cycle in his thoughts throughout the meal, as he walks Roland back to camp, as he takes his turn on patrol, as he helps Little John build a campfire.

_Why? _

The moon is high in the heavens when he finds himself on her porch, rapping his knuckles against the door. His heart pounds as he waits for her to answer. What if he _had_ requested that she expunge his memories of her? It’s not an undertaking he would have embarked on lightly. Is he being a fool now in wanting undone what’s been done?

The door flings open, and she looks ready to incinerate the person who dared to disturb her—until her gaze falls on him. There it is again—the sadness, the panic in her expression. She rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the mood.”

For what, he wants to ask but says instead, “I apologize for the late hour, milady, but can we talk? I have questions that apparently only you can answer.”

“Of course you do.” Her voice is a laced with bitter laughter, but she steps aside and grants him entry. She smells like lavender and honey as he follows her to a room of stark white and black, and that unique scent makes his chest lurch—as though his body recalls what his mind cannot.

She gestures for him to take a seat on the divan and when she sits opposite of him, her back is unnaturally straight, as though every muscle in her body has been pulled as taut as a bowstring. Again, he is beset with a desire to comfort her in some manner.

“Well?” she prods him with a canted brow.

“It would seem,” he says, unsure how to broach this difficult topic, “that you’ve taken something from me.”

She sighs heavily. “I made a mistake.” A strange relief washes over him until she adds, “I should have taken Roland’s memories, too. But then—”

“You never thought you would see him again,” Robin finishes for her as understanding constricts his throat. He already has the answer to his next question, but he feels compelled to voice it anyway. “Did I agree to this?”

Her gaze drops to the span of alabaster cushion between them and is silent for several beats before she replies softly, “No. But you were too stubborn to see that it’s the only way to save Marian.”

His brows furrow at this. Forgetting Regina in order to break Marian’s curse? That makes no— But then he remembers Elsa’s admonition that only an act of true love can save his wife. He remembers covering her chilled mouth with his. He recalls the hurried explanation from the prince about the cold being a barrier, but he knew better as guilt made a barbed vine in his chest. He failed Marian because he didn’t—he _couldn’t_ love her. Not the way he once had. He remembers rationalizing his lack of passion for her as only a side effect of years spent overcoming grief and learning to live without her. But as he looks at the woman before him—the one who has begun to intrigue him, the one he would like to know better, but doesn’t because he is duty-bound to another—and he realizes that she’s eradicated the most crucial fact in this story.

“I was,” he says, words sticking to his tongue in a halting revelation, “I _am_ in love with you.” Or would be if he _remembered_. Who is she that he would lay his second chance at happiness at her feet? He is not an impetuous man, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, and resentment curls behind his sternum. She has taken something infinitely more precious than merely his memories.

The anguish in her eyes, now glassy with unshed tears, douses the flames of his budding ire, though, and another truth dawns on him. He’s wounded her with his love. No, not just his love. His honor. He knows himself, knows that Marian’s unexpected return must have forced him to make an unsavory choice. And oh, by the gods, what has he done? To the both of them? To himself?

Perhaps not remembering is a blessing after all. Except he is still hurting her. And he still doesn’t love his wife—as much as he wants to rescue her.

“You failed,” he says, allowing a measure of frustration in his tone.

She brushes his statement away with a wave of her hand. “It’s only been a couple of weeks. Give it time.”

“Time?” He shakes his head. She doesn’t understand. “Already I’m drawn to you without the virtue of my memories, and—” He cuts off as he recalls the year before in the Enchanted Forest. And though he has no recollections of her then, because of Roland’s tales, he knows his attraction to her did not begin in Storybrooke. “It’s been twice now, and I still find my way to you.”

There is so much pain in her expression that he wishes he could unmake this reality for her sake. “Pixie dust,” she whispers. At his confusion, she explains, “Tinkerbell used pixie dust once to help me find my soulmate, and I was afraid to meet you then.”

A moment passes before her implications become clear to him. “And you think my feelings for you are born from some magical compulsion?” he says. “Did it never occur to you that we’re soulmates because we’re well matched? I don’t know you, not anymore, but if I loved you before, I _will_ love you again.” And he wants to. He wants to at least know what endeared her so deeply to him.

“You loved Marian before,” she argues. “And you can—you _should_ love her again. She’s your wife and you chose her.” The last bit is a jab, meant to cut him down as surely as he’s unintentionally cut her.

But her accusation doesn’t sting. He doesn’t remember making the choice, and perhaps then he was naïve enough to believe he would be able to resurrect his adoration for Marian, that he could ignore whatever affection had blossomed between himself and Regina until it withered like a dried vine. It’s apparent now that he was mistaken. Extraordinarily so if Regina believed that this was their only recourse.

“Restore my memories,” he says. It’s not quite a demand, but neither is it a request. He needs to find a way to set things right, but he cannot do so without knowing everything. Even the unpleasant truths she’s hidden from him.

“You won’t be able to save Marian if I do,” Regina replies. Her steady voice is belied by the near terror in her gaze.

The smile he gives her is meant to placate her fears—whether she worries that he’ll ultimately blame her for Marian’s unremitting slumber on the precipice between life and death, or if she’s afraid he will resume crushing her under the weight of a love she desires but is barred from her. In truth, he cannot entirely predict how he will proceed once he is whole again. He doesn’t know the man he became during his association with her.

“I can’t save her now,” he confesses. “And I don’t believe I ever will—not with True Love’s Kiss.” This much he knows to be true, with or without memories.

She rises abruptly, crosses the room, her back to him as she says, “I can’t do this.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” Now he is afraid. More than ever he wants this, but what if she refuses him? He supposes he could go to Rumpelstiltskin for aid, but the imp will likely require a price beyond what Robin is willing to pay.

Regina looks heavenward before answering, “I don’t know.” She turns back to him. “I don’t know how to give you what you want. You want to be a man of honor, so you chose Marian. You want me to save the very woman who stands in the way of my happiness, and I tried. I tried _everything_, Robin—even taking your memories so you could love her again.”

He doesn’t recall any of this, and so he aches on her behalf for the man who has required so much from her. (And is he so different when he’s asking for even more?) He stands and closes the distance between them, hands balling into fists to keep from gathering her into his arms—because the notion feels terribly natural.

“I am sorry for all of the pain I’ve caused you, Regina.”

She makes a derisive noise, takes a step back from him. “How can you be sorry? You don’t even remember.”

“I can imagine,” he answers, and he can. He knows how much he once loved Marian, that he suffered torture at the hands of the Dark One in the hopes of stealing something to cure her illness. And if he loved Regina with the same depth—no, it's more, he thinks, so much _more_—then how devastating it must have been to have it all ripped from them when he was forced to choose between her and his code of honor. (He doubts very much that the choice was ever between her and Marian.) He doesn’t know how he behaved after making his decision, but he surmises that he must not have been able to stay completely away from Regina. He should have—if only to ease her suffering.

No. He shakes his head at that last thought. He should have chosen her. Because where was the honor in giving Marian a husband who pretends at love while he yearns for another? He doesn’t know the weight of his crimes against Regina, but he imagines the reformed Evil Queen wouldn’t have pinned her hopes for happiness on a mere whim. She chose him. He should have chosen her.

“Restore my memories,” he says. Let me fix this, he wants to add but thinks she’s not ready to hear it— that she doesn’t trust him. He can hardly blame her.

“I don’t know how,” she whispers, tears now spill down her cheeks, making her appear small and vulnerable.

Oh Robin, he chides his past self. What have you done, you fool? She’s lying, he knows, but he cannot begin to guess whether it’s because she doesn’t want him to remember or because she finds the act required to undo the spell too objectionable. And what would that act be? He only knows the stories from their former realm—something as simple as—

“Do you love me?” he asks. When she won’t answer, he advances on her and repeats the question. “Do you love me, Regina?” He regrets the pain that pinches her brow, the crimson that rims her dark eyes, but he needs her admission.

“I don’t want to.”

It’s enough.

He murmurs an apology (and another silent one to Marian) before taking Regina’s face in his hands and pulling her into a kiss. Her mouth against his is like a firebolt, electrifying his skin, his bones, his sinews. That she has this effect on him when he doesn’t know her— And then he suddenly does as every memory she’s stolen slams into him like a deluge of arrows, each so incredibly painful in their beauty and heartache. He remembers the relentless fire she ignites in him, the passion that sears him into ash and reforms him anew. Of course he couldn’t abstain from being near her for long. He feels as though he’s slowly drowning when he’s away from her. But he tries—oh, how hard he’s tried. Because he _loves_ her.

His love, though, is so much more than needing her. He’s driven to defend her, support her, protect her, have faith in her—especially when she has no faith in herself. He’s desperate to be everything she thinks she doesn’t deserve, but absolutely does. He was made for her as inexorably as she was made for him. His feelings for Marian were child’s play compared to what he shares with Regina. This was why he refused her offer to take his memories.

But even more: he _had_ chosen Regina. He had come to his senses, realized the error of his choice. He told her as much, explained that they would find another way to undo the Snow Queen’s freezing curse, but that he is and ever will be _hers_.

The infuriating woman had gone through with her rash plan anyway—immediately after his confession.

He breaks off the kiss, presses his forehead into hers as he tangles his fingers in her hair. “You willful, insufferable woman,” he says with a smile, though he _is_ angry. “How could you?”

She huffs a mirthless laugh. “Of all the things I’ve done, including executing your wife,” she says, “you’re upset about _this_?”

“Damn right, I am,” he returns without hesitation. He takes a deep breath before continuing, “I know I’ve been unfair to you, but you could have at least let me attempt to make amends before wiping out our past.”

“I was afraid,” she says in a voice so small that it makes his heart clench. That’s the crux of all of this, isn’t it? She feared that he would leave her again. Because if he could rescind his decision to be with his wife, he could change his mind about Regina as well. And she took matters in her own hands to protect herself from the poor choice he _might_ make. (And, perhaps, because she still doesn’t believe she deserves the happiness he would give her—no matter how she proclaims otherwise.)

She tries to pull back from him, but he doesn’t release her. His lips ghost over hers as he murmurs, “I love you.”

He knows this will not cure all their ills, won’t erase the mistakes they’ve made. But he hopes that it will bind up their wounds (hers especially) as they begin to heal.

“I love you, too.”

It’s a start.

**~FIN~**


	3. Her Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her husband may have chosen to leave Storybrooke with her, but Marian knows his heart lies elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/PG  
Genres: Angst, Season 4 Canon Divergence AU
> 
> A/N: This was written for descaliers for the 2014 Secret Santa Exchange. It was written before the truth about Marian was revealed (back when we were all sure that Marian was, in fact, Marian).

**HER CHOICE**

She understands.

She knows it’s been years for him. He’s pulled himself out of the bleak tide of guilt and grief, found strength in his Merry Men, in Roland. She knows it’s unfair to hope that his love for her would burn just as brightly decades later, that he would be prescient enough to guess at her unexpected resurrection. She knows he would have eventually moved on. His stitched-together heart would have found another to adore.

She understands.

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

As they attempt to make sense of this wild, strange realm with the splinters left of their family, she sees past his valiant attempts at optimism to the ache rimming in his pale eyes. Had her death left him as empty, as haunted? Shame ties knots in her chest—because she hopes it. It’s a meager consolation to know she was loved as deeply by him as he now loves the former Evil Queen (her executioner; her savior) but Marian craves it nonetheless.

None of his anguish bleeds into his interactions with their son. He’s free, happy (almost), laughing as he acts out _Ogres and Archers_—a game she’s only recently introduced to. (Roland was little more than a babe when she disappeared from their lives.) And for a breath, she can pretend that they are whole, just the three of them with no shadow hovering nearby, threatening to distract her husband. But when his gaze meets hers, the fantasy is shattered. Because there’s an apology eternally etched in the lines between his brows. _I’m sorry that I miss her. I’m sorry I can’t be the husband you left. I’m sorry for the tears you’ve shed. _

And she does weep. She mourns what was stolen from her twice by the same woman. She replays the brief conversation she had with Regina in the diner—dissects the brave words that fell from her lips. She hadn’t lied; she wanted to be chosen, but she got obligation instead. She’s irrationally angry at times. At Regina—for becoming so changed that she snared her husband’s unremitting affection, his unwavering loyalty. At Robin—for daring to lay his heart at another’s feet. At the Fates—for throwing her into the middle of this maelstrom of silent pain and regrets.

She longs for simpler times, for her days in the Enchanted Forest, when her greatest worry was whether Robin’s next job would land him in the dungeons. This is infinitely worse—having him and yet _not_. He’s her partner, her friend, but no longer her lover. A loss she stoically bore in the beginning, but which has become a crippling burden in the following weeks. She knows it hasn’t been long enough for him to surrender himself to this new life (one they were both forced into), but when she catches him staring listlessly out the window—northward, toward where _she_ is—it cuts her all the same.

“I miss the woodlands,” he’ll say. “My men.”

He’ll never mention her. Marian chooses to believe the reason he doesn’t is to abate her heartache rather than his.

She understands. (She tries to.)

But she can’t live like this anymore. Not with this ever present anticipation that he will remember how to love her strangling her heart like a creeping vine. One that he crushes each day with the longing he wears like a dark cloak.

He comes home to suitcases packed with the clothing and few precious possessions they’ve acquired since striking out on their own. There is a question in his eyes—and fear. Because as impenetrable as the divide between them has become, Roland has been the thin but resilient link between them. She needs her son and so does he. And she knows he is afraid that she’ll ask him to go—without his boy.

“_We’re_ going back,” she explains to allay his unspoken worries.

He shakes his head with bitter resignation. “We can’t.”

“Then we’ll get as close as we can—that diner we went to when we first left,” she counters with more resolve than she feels. “I’m sure they’ll find a way to break the curse eventually, and we will be ready when they do.”

And then _he_ understands.

“I can’t ask that of you,” he says after a protracted silence, but it’s too late. She already saw the bare flicker of hope crossing his features, and it’s not just his men, his old camp that he yearns to be reunited with.

“No, Robin, you can’t ask me to continue to live this farce.” She holds up a hand when he starts to argue. “I love you, and I think I always will. But your heart hasn’t been mine for years, and I can’t keep pretending that’s going to change.” Her voice cracks with the tears she’s tired of crying. Brave words again—words she knows to be right, but sound so _wrong_ to her ears.

He pulls her into a rough embrace, face pressed into her neck as sobs shake his body. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats like a mantra, like a plea for atonement. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She is, too. She’s sorry she put herself in danger in the first place, abandoning him, creating a rift too wide to heal. She can’t be sorry she lived—not for Roland’s sake, not for hers—but she is sorry that she’s indirectly become the obstacle to her husband’s happiness. (She’s sorry that she’s no longer the source of that happiness.) She clings to the threadbare faith that she, too, will one day find her own blissful ending—even if it’s only in the arms of her son.

This is how she’ll repay Regina—for the sacrifices the reformed queen made on her behalf, on Robin’s. Out of uncharacteristic selflessness. Out of a love so pure that she was willing to give all. And Marian will return it all to her.

Because she understands.

**~FIN~**


	4. Honor Above All Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He chose honor over his heart (for what is his heart without honor?). But the consequences of that choice are far greater than he imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/PG  
Genres: Angst, All The Angst, Season 4 Canon Divergence AU

**HONOR ABOVE ALL ELSE**

He chose honor over his heart (for what is his heart without honor?), and he knew the pieces to the puzzle that had become his life wouldn’t fall into place effortlessly. He knew, but he didn’t quite understand.

He goes about relearning to love his wife—for Roland’s sake. For Marian’s. He tells Regina, the broken queen who suffered more than anyone has a right to bear, that he did love her—loves her still, even if obligation prevents him from acting on that tender affection. He’s not sure if he makes that confession to assure her that what they had (what was stolen from them) was real—or if _he_ needs that anchor in the midst of this unexpected turmoil.

He thinks the ache in his chest will ease if Regina finds happiness again, even without him. Because the hollow look in her dark eyes, the lines that furrow her brow, draw her mouth into a frown are silent indictments against him. He feels guilt despite the fact that the divide between them is not one he created. He never planned to be another name on the list of those who disappointed her, who _left_ her, and yet he is.

But if she would smile once more, genuine and without malice or mockery (the way she used to smile at him), perhaps that will alleviate this pain, this regret.

He believes this, but he doesn’t quite understand.

Not until months later when she does smile. At Henry as they sit together at Granny’s, dipping fries in a milkshake. Robin tries not to watch them, tries not to hear her laughter breaking over the other noises of the busy diner like the sea crashing onto the shore. He should be pleased for her, and he is, but it feels strangely like this brief moment of joy has begun to unravel the invisible cord that ties him to her.

He spends hours at the archery range, nocking arrows and letting them fly until the callouses on his fingers crack. He tells himself the exercise is solely because he’s become too reliant on the crossbow in this realm. He tells himself it’s not because he can’t yet face his wife, not when he’s skirting precariously close to the edge of truly losing what he can’t have.

He loves Marian (how can he not?), but as he lies next to her, her warm body pressed into his side, he knows that love is pale, colorless. On moonless nights, he wonders if it was always this way with her, if he called it deep and passionate because he hadn’t yet experienced true depth and true passion. Like a boy who considers a pair of rabbits over a cook fire a feast until he stands before a buffet table full of every delicacy imaginable.

Time heals all wounds, the saying goes, and time seems to have given Regina that gift. Robin witnesses the serenity that settles over her. She chooses to access her light magic more often (magic, he recalls, that was first inspired by _his_ unconditional faith in her). She’s embraced by the Charmings, accepted by Emma, and the town is beginning to forget the Evil Queen and coming to know Regina Mills. She belongs. She’s wanted. (Even Marian speaks well of her.)

And Robin is glad. He’s _so_ glad. Even if his heart feels tighter, smaller, knowing that he has no part in her burgeoning happiness, no part in her life. He can live with this, he tells himself.

(He’s determined, but he doesn’t quite understand.)

Anguish is not a word he uses lightly. He’s only experienced it twice before: at Marian’s death, on Regina’s doorstep when he made his choice. And now a third time. It doesn’t come when men, no longer frightened by a vengeful sorceress, begin to take notice of the mayor—though Robin is not overly fond of watching casual touches and laughter between her and some fellow who has her attention. He doesn’t allow the black mark of jealousy to fester; he has no claim on her, and he’s an honorable man. (To a fault.)

No, his torment comes in a quiet conversation with her while they are staking out their latest enemy. "Thank you," she tells him, for believing in her, for seeing beyond her façade built from hatred and hurt to the woman she could become. Thank you, she explains, for teaching her about honor, about love. Her words are weighted with finality, with _goodbye_, and he knows that the tie between them is severed once and for all.

He wants to tell her that his love still burns bright, that what they shared is etched into his bones, impossible to dismiss as a mere life lesson. But he only says that he’s grateful to hear that she was able to make peace with what transpired. (Maybe he will too someday. The lie is getting harder to believe.)

She squeezes his hand, turns back to their task in quiet dismissal. And he swallows down his misery.

Because he chose honor over his heart (but what is honor without his heart?).

**~FIN~**


	5. Late Night Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Missing Year, while patrolling the castle grounds, Robin happens upon Regina meditating in the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/PG  
Genres: Friendship, Comfort, Missing Year

**LATE NIGHT INTERLUDE**

He finds her in the moonlit gardens, her upturned face cast in an ethereal glow, tears glittering on her lashes.

He doesn’t mean to be a voyeur of this clearly private moment, but he’s caught by some peculiar force ever driving him towards her. Perhaps it’s because he understands her loss after a manner—that ache that never vanishes entirely no matter how time attempts to dull it. He supposes, though, that his suffering is not quite equal to hers. He was made privy to the real story behind the Evil Queen’s decades-long vengeance shortly after they were all safely ensconced within the castle walls. Snow White shared the tale to encourage him to be patient with Regina’s unwarranted rancor towards him, and because of it, he knows better the disparity between them.

He lost Marian. Regina lost everything.

He spoke to her once of second chances, but he wonders now if she ever truly had a first chance.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Her sharp tone cuts him from his musings, and he decides there is no use in slinking away in the shadows.

“You.” Her lip curls with a hint of contempt as he steps into the pale light. “I thought you were Snow.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty.” He bows his head in deference, and she makes a noise of derision, but says nothing more. He thinks she may not be as opposed to his company as she wants him to believe—at least tonight.

“May I?” He gestures toward the empty space next to her.

“If you’re going to give me another sermon about happiness and rainbows, you can move along,” she answers with her usual venom. Though, beneath it, she sounds…tired. Resigned. “I’m not in the mood right now.”

She’s never in the mood, but he doesn’t voice that thought. “You have my word,” he says instead as he lowers himself onto the bench.

“As much as a thief’s word is worth,” she returns with an eye roll.

He bites back a stinging retort. How the woman burrows herself under his skin and drives him _mad_ (drives him to distraction). But this is not the time for one of their acerbic exchanges. She’s hurting. She’s always hurting, he realizes, but she often hides it so well beneath the mask of spiteful monarch that he forgets the perpetual wound in her heart.

Silence stretches between them for an untold number of minutes as neither seem inclined to speak. Him because he doesn’t want to press her to open up to him. Her because, well, why should she choose him as a confidant when there are others she’s known far longer—others she trusts?

Surprisingly, though, it is her who ultimately breaches the stillness. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” she murmurs.

He frowns. The new year won’t be upon them for several more—oh. _Oh._ He nods with sudden understanding. She means the other realm and— “You’re thinking of your son, Henry,” he says. When she doesn’t reply, he ventures a question. “Will you tell me about him?”

She gives him a sidelong gaze as though assessing whether he’s worthy of knowledge she holds precious. She turns back to stargazing, and Robin thinks she won’t answer, until: “He’s twelve, and he has the heart of the truest believer.”

Her voice is threaded with both pride and pain, halting at first as she recounts her son’s commendable attributes, but her words come faster, surer when she shares anecdotes—some humorous, others touching—of her time as the boy’s mother. The moon waxes high in the clear night sky, and Robin listens to tales of a colicky baby, of lost teeth, of frustrations over schoolwork, of holiday traditions. She lays bare the mistakes she made in her desperation to keep Henry’s loyalty when he brought Emma to Storybrooke. (Snow and David’s daughter, Robin reminds himself.) Regina tells of her fear when Henry was stolen by Peter Pan, how helpless she felt as they scoured the wild jungles of Neverland for him. She tells of a reunion cut too short by a curse, and of her ultimate sacrifice.

She finishes in a near whisper. “He is—_was_ my salvation.”

Robin is quiet as he ponders this extraordinary boy. He’s guessed from their first meeting that the Evil Queen (former, now) is a far more complex woman than the stories have painted her. And something as simple as loving this child was enough to bring her back from the darkness which pervaded her life for countless years. The heart of the truest believer, indeed. The heart of a _healer_.

“I should have liked to have known him,” Robin admits.

She glances at him, smiling the first honest smile he’s seen—even if it is a tad wistful—and the beauty of it makes Robin’s heart clench. “He would have loved to meet you,” she says. “Robin Hood. The legendary outlaw and his Merry Men.”

Robin’s brows furrow. This is one of many things he finds baffling about that strange land—that their lives here, including his, are mere children’s tales there, nothing more than fairy stories. (And not terribly accurate ones from what he’s heard.) “Perhaps our paths will cross one day.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, shakes her head. “We can’t go back, and even if we could, he wouldn’t know who I was.”

Robin tries to imagine what it would be like if Roland looked at him as if he were a stranger. Could he surrender himself to such a fate as she has? No, he doesn’t believe he could. “After we defeat the Wicked Witch,” he says, “we can find a way to reunite you with your son and Snow White with her daughter. Don’t give up hope yet.”

“Hope,” Regina repeats sourly. “Hope has never served me well. Villains like me don’t get happy endings.”

The bald confession settles like a burr in his chest, stings his eyes with compassion and heartache. He places his hand over hers resting between them on the bench. “You’re not a villain, Regina.” This much he knows, in spite of their heated debates.

She looks up at him, and her wide-eyed expression is so earnest, so _guileless_—as though she wants desperately to believe him. But in the next breath, it’s gone, replaced by the cold, familiar veneer of heartless sorceress. She withdraws from his reassuring touch and rises. “It’s late,” she announces in an imperious tone. “Shouldn’t you be off filling your quota of valuables to steal and redistribute?”

“Of course,” he replies through gritted teeth. “How could I have forgotten that I’m nothing more than a common thief?” He wants to grab her, shake her, yell at her to stop with this ridiculous charade—to stop pushing him away with her serrated insults. (Why does he keep making himself her target?)

She gives him a cruel, tight-lipped smile. “You said it, not me.”

His shoulders sag in irritation and disappointment as he watches her exit. Curse the impossible woman for playing this game of keep away. Curse him for being unable to distance himself from her despite the malice she hurls at him.

Because while she may have given up on her future happiness, he finds inexplicably that he cannot. And the more fool he for it.

**~FIN~**


	6. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry decides to introduce Robin to this realm’s films about him—quite against Robin’s will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T/PG-13  
Genres: Canon Divergence AU, Fluff, Humor, Family

**MOVIE NIGHT**

Movie night was Robin’s first clue that perhaps Regina’s boy hadn’t forgiven him quite yet. Henry may have paid lip service to the idea that Robin’s separation from his mother was born from circumstances beyond his control—twice, in fact—but as the opening credits to a moving picture show called _Robin Hood_ began to roll, Robin suspected the boy might be enacting a harmless revenge against his new stepfather.

It wasn’t a terrible film (a “cartoon” as Henry called it; an “animated feature,” Regina corrected). On the contrary, it was quite entertaining, if horribly inaccurate, but Robin had long since grown accustomed to this realm’s skewed interpretation of his exploits. He was a tad perturbed when Roland begged to see it again—every day the following week, including the days he spent with his mother.

“It’s…interesting,” Marian said after her initial viewing.

“They got one part right, at least,” Regina told him when they were alone in their room at night. “You are pretty foxy.”

She squealed with laughter when he rolled on top of her, pinning her wrists. “Is that so?” By the gods, he loved this woman.

When Friday came around again, Robin was beginning to sense a theme as Henry invited Marian to join them for a presentation of _The Adventures of Robin Hood_. This one was a “live action” picture with living, breathing human beings. Well, not living and breathing anymore, so Regina explained. Strange magic, these movies, that they can continue to share these performances when those who made them had long since escaped their mortal frames.

Like the other, this film was both inaccurate and entertaining. If Robin was to be portrayed by another, this fellow wasn’t half bad. Except—

“What,” Robin said with incredulity as the onscreen version of him dropped a deer on the prince’s table, “is he _wearing_?”

“It’s called hose,” Regina answered. “It was the fashion in this realm during the middle ages.”

That was another thing that baffled Robin, that his “legend” in this world—as well as all of the legends having to do with the denizens of the Enchanted Forest, for that matter—was older than he was. By several centuries. Was there an ancient seer who had somehow seen into their world in his future and managed to botch every single one of their life stories in the telling of them? But that was a discussion for another time.

“It’s impractical,” Robin argued, returning to the subject at hand. “How is he to protect his legs in battle with those?”

“He has nice legs,” Marian interjected. She shrugged when Robin gave her a look rife with disbelief. “He does.”

Regina made a noise of agreement, and Henry looked positively gleeful at Robin’s sour expression. Oh, yes. The boy was most certainly exacting some sort of vengeance. Being the honorable man that he was, though, Robin would endure the retribution with grace. Grudgingly.

He wasn’t surprised when the next movie night featured _The Prince of Thieves_. It also featured a larger crowd of observers with the additions of Will and Little John.

Soon Friday nights were the topic of conversations among the townsfolk. After weeks of various incarnations of the mythical hero Robin was supposed to have been, he couldn’t even find respite from the ordeal during his regular lunches at Granny’s.

“Kevin Costner?” Ruby asked as she commiserated with Granny and Emma within earshot.

Emma laughed. “Seriously? Even with the bad acting and terrible accent that came and went?”

“I’m just saying,” Ruby replied with a grin, “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”

Granny snorted. “There are precious few you wouldn’t kick out of bed, granddaughter.” Ruby stuck her tongue out at the older woman.

“What about Russell Crowe?” Emma said. “He’s got some meat on his bones—not unlike the real deal.”

What could they be possibly be talking about? And more importantly, why was Robin eavesdropping?

“I don’t care what you young kids say,” Granny replied as she picked up a dishrag and slung it over her shoulder. “Errol Flynn has always been and always will be my Robin Hood.”

Oh, good grief. Robin cleared his throat. “You do realize,” he said, “that the _actual_ Robin of Locksley is sitting right here.”

Ruby gave him a brilliant grin and sashayed over to him. “I wouldn’t kick you out of bed, either,” she replied with a wink, “if you weren’t already taken, hon. More coffee?”

He took solace in the fact that during the Saturday movie nights at the Charmings—plus one reformed pirate—Henry premiered all films featuring the infamous Captain Hook. That shared suffering was the basis of a newly formed friendship between the two men.

Robin thought the torture was finally coming to an end when Henry put on a film about a rather disgusting ogre who was sent to rescue a princess. Shrek, that was his name. The group of viewers had grown to include his fellow Merry Men and even his old rival, the Sheriff of Nottingham (who was a bartender known as Keith in this world)—as well as his family. Everything was going remarkably well, and Robin-Hood-free, until—

_I steal from the rich and give to the needy_   
_He takes a wee percentage, but I'm not greedy_   
_I rescue pretty damsels, man, I'm good_   
_What a guy, ha-ha, Monsieur Hood_

Robin ran a hand over his face with a groan. Of course, _of course_ there was a Robin Hood in this, too. Quite a terrible one. “Why is he speaking with that outrageous accent?” At least most of previous versions had spoken more like “the real deal,” as Emma had called him.

Regina laughed as if he had become inadvertently humorous, and at his confusion, she murmured, “Remind me to show you _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ sometime.”

“Please tell me I’m not in that one as well.” He was truly nearing his wit’s end with these shenanigans.

“No,” she reassured him. “That one is safe from legendary bandits.”

That was a relief. And since the scene with his counterpart in this particular movie was less than two minutes in length (Robin quietly cheered Princess Fiona on as she took down the horrifying imitation of him), he dared to hope that Henry had exhausted his repertoire of films to taunt him with.

Robin was wrong. Horribly wrong.

Apparently his stepson had been saving the best—or worst, rather—for last. _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_. Robin had heard of suing for slander or defamation of character, and if there was ever a case for it, this was it.

“That’s not physically possible.” He waved a hand toward the screen in half-hearted frustration when the other Robin shot four arrows at once, pinning a soldier to a tree.

“That’s the point,” Regina said. “It’s a parody.”

Robin felt marginally better when Marian’s equivalent graced the screen. At least he wasn’t the only one made a mockery of.

“Oy, Marian!” Will shouted when the actress rose out of the bath wearing that awful metal contraption—the so-called chastity belt. “Got one of those, have you?”

“If I did,” she shot back, “I would have used it as a muzzle on you a long time ago.” Robin laughed. Now _that_ was funny.

The film was terrible, but it was growing on him. He found himself chuckling at the humor he did understand (the ridiculous staff battle between Robin and Little John, for example), but most of the references were to things pertaining to this realm, and only the ones who had come over in the first curse laughed at those. Will and the other men cringed when Latrine came onscreen. The rabbi, however, turned out to be a source of serious discussion.

“Do people actually cut their…?” Little John glanced down at his sensitive parts with a look of horror. “Why would they maim themselves like that? Are they eunuchs?”

“It’s a religious ritual,” Regina began to explain. (Another strange concept in this land—religion. Perhaps the people in this world craved magic so much they felt the need to create their own version of it.) Nothing she said could placate the Merry Men, though. And each time the rabbi made an appearance, many hands went protectively to crotches.

Will fell out of his chair in a guffaw when Broomhilde—who never seemed to wield the broom strapped to her person—attempted to jump from the parapet onto her horse. Worse, though, was the apparent theme song for the film: “Men in Tights.” Robin was certain that he’d be hearing “We’re men, we’re men in tights; we roam around the forest looking for fights” for weeks to come.

Even worse still was when onscreen Robin serenaded Marian.

“They got that bit right, didn’t they, Robin?” Will hooted. “Only he’s a mite better at it than you were.”

Robin chucked a pillow at him and told him to keep quiet. Regina raised a questioning brow. Lovely. Robin would have some explaining to do later about his time as a young, lovesick fool. He’d likely have to tell her why he hadn’t sung for her. (Because he hadn’t found the proper ballad yet. Using one he’d previously performed for Marian would be in poor taste.)

When the Sheriff of Nottingham stole away with Marian, Robin was glad that Roland hadn’t joined them for this viewing. Henry had enough forethought to warn that the little boy might not be mature enough to appreciate this movie. (Robin wasn’t sure Henry was mature enough, either.) At least there wouldn’t be a mountain of questions regarding that blasted chastity belt and why everyone was trying to unlock it. And did kings really get to kiss every girl who was going to get married? Henry had, at least, saved Robin _that_ headache.

Blessedly, the film ended not long after—with a happily ever after, of course. Robin pulled Henry aside as the others were filing out of the house. “Have you finished?” he asked. “Or should I expect a new one next week.”

Henry grinned with all the innocence of a young boy. “I’m done,” he said, and Robin breathed a sigh of relief. “With the movies, anyway. Now we can watch the TV shows and mini-series.”

Robin’s eyes widened. “TV shows? Mini-series?” He’d been in Storybrooke long enough to know what those were. Just _how_ enamored had the people of this realm been with these trumped up interpretations of his life?

Regina sidled up next to him, laughing softly. “Don’t look so glum,” she said. “It’s not that bad.”

“I beg to differ.”

She didn’t find it quite so humorous weeks later when the new theme for movie night was announced: the plethora of retellings of _Snow White_.

**~FIN~**


	7. Never Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His first encounter with her was not upon her return to the Enchanted Forest, but long before she was ever named the Evil Queen. Unfortunately, he has no memory of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T/PG-13  
Genres: Angst, Attraction, Season 3 Canon Divergence AU

**NEVER WAS**

Life on the run has given Robin a special sort of alertness, and while he carelessly sits with his back to the tavern door, he is quite aware of its creaking hinges when it opens. Not even his third tankard of the foul drink that passes for mead in this establishment has dulled his fight or flight reflexes. (A fourth might do the trick.) He doesn’t turn around at the sound, though, doesn’t bother to cast even a surreptitious glance at the patron either coming or going. Little John will give him ample warning should any trouble be on the horizon.

There shouldn’t be. Not between jobs—when the heat from the last has died down to embers and before the desperation for the next has sparked. Tonight, Robin and his men are nothing more than common folk with a little coin to spend. And with enough ale, perhaps he can drown his past. The idea is laughable, but it won’t keep him from the attempt.

“Don’t look now,” Little John murmurs, fingering his unruly beard, “but I think our new mark has descended upon us.” He nods toward the door.

Robin keeps his gaze fixed on his tankard, though he is curious. If Little John is correct, if some fool of a dandy lord has found his way into a place like this, it wouldn’t do to scare off the poor sap by showing undue interest. Robin waits a beat, and then another, sips the vile mead before taking a peek. What he sees, however, is not at all what he expects.

She’s _breathtaking_.

There isn’t another word for it. In fact, even that descriptor is terribly lacking and unequal to the vision who sits at an empty table nearby. Robin forces himself to look away, but by the gods, he could happily stare at her all evening. He’s likely more touched than he previously believed—either that, or someone has slipped him a potion that induces rapture.

“Baroness, by the look of the shiny baubles hanging off her gown,” Little John says, all business in his tone as if he’s unaffected by her beauty. “Do we follow her back to her estates? Or a little sleight of hand to take the treasures she has on her now?”

Robin frowns, irrationally offended by either suggestion—especially the latter. “I’ve no stomach for stealing from ladies.”

Little John laughs at this, deep and boisterous. A few of the others join in. “Since when have you passed up any golden opportunity—lady or otherwise?”

“Since tonight,” Robin returns, giving his mate a flat look. “We’re none of us on the job, and I’ll truss up any one of you who has us fleeing this village because you’ve gotten greedy. No one accosts that woman, are we understood?”

There are grudging noises of agreement from the others as they turn back to their drinks, but Little John stares at him with a wide, knowing grin. “No one but you, eh?” he asks quietly.

Robin smiles back unabashedly; there is no point in denying the truth of Little John’s accusation. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” He winks as he rises from the bench.

His bravado is short-lived, however, melting away with each step he takes toward her. What _is_ it about this fair maiden that has his mouth turning dry in the very best way? Even more, why is he compelled to put himself in her path when he knows she would most certainly eschew the attentions of a paltry bandit like himself? Does it matter? His course is set, and suffering her rejection may be worth the prize of hearing her voice.

He approaches from behind, glad for the chance to settle his unruly nerves as he tries to think of an opening that isn’t trite. There really isn’t any; the least tasteless one will have to suffice.

He clears his throat, and she startles at the soft noise. “Forgive me, milady,” he says. (Those dark eyes of hers are absolutely stunning.) “But you seem a little out of your element.”

She raises a brow, pursing her lips. “I think you’re out—” her gaze falls to the tattoo above his wrist, and the bite fades from the rest of her words, “—of yours.”

“Oh, very much so,” he agrees with a grin, though he’s perturbed that the mark—a remnant from the dark history he’s desperate to escape—has any significance to her. It’s not enough to deter him, however. He doubts anything will be. “May I?” He gestures toward the empty seat across from her.

“I’m not stopping you.” That voice _is_ quite lovely, isn’t it? Rich, husky, and not at all like the shrill timbre so many young ladies affect in a misguided attempt to sound dainty.

“Not to use a tired old line,” he says as he lowers himself, “but what could possibly bring such a beautiful, well-bred woman to a seedy pub full of everyday rustics?”

Rose colors the apples of her cheeks as she gives him a small smile. He believes if she stretches those full lips of hers just a bit wider, if she gave him a _true_ grin, he’ll be irrevocably awestruck. He’s found a new purpose in life. “It’s a long story,” she says.

“You’re in luck, then.” He stretches his legs beneath the table, careful not to brush up against hers— though he would like to. “I have all the time in the world to hear it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to share.” There’s a hint of levity in her tone. And something else. Is she as nervous as he’s pretending not to be? Surely she doesn’t fear him.

“I’m fairly certain you do,” he counters.

“Oh?” She gives him a dubious expression. “What makes you so sure?”

He shrugs. “You would have chased me off by now.” That elicits the tiniest of laughs from her, and he feels like a king. “Robin of Locksley at your service,” he says, holding out a hand.

She glances again at the lion tattoo inked into his skin before offering her hand in return. “Regina,” she says. “Just…Regina.”

Ah, so the lady has secrets she’s not ready to divulge. He won’t press the matter. Not yet. “Pleasure, Just Regina.” He places a kiss over her knuckles, reveling in the blush the act inspires.

“So,” she says, drawing her hand back, “tell me about yourself, Robin of Locksley.”

He chuckles at the clever deflection. If she believes she can easily escape the telling of her tale, she will be rather disappointed. But he’ll humor her for now. He opens his mouth to answer, but one isn’t immediately forthcoming. Does he lie? Fabricate some story about being a miller or a poor farmer? No. There is something undeniably wrong about spinning such falsehoods for her. He could tell a partial truth, refer to the man he once was, but the thought churns his stomach.

“I’m a thief,” he admits. “One of the best.”

“A thief!” she exclaims, eyes growing round. Her jaw clenches and she mutters something under her breath that he can’t quite hear, though it sounds strangely like, “I’m going to kill that fairy.” But, of course, that makes little sense. Once she’s collected herself, she turns her attention back to him, her bearing regal and cold. He supposes she means to be intimidating, and on a lesser man, she might have that effect. Her imperial demeanor, however, does something entirely different (and not altogether unpleasant) to Robin.

“I suppose you were hoping to make off with my valuables,” she accuses, all judgment and recrimination.

He grins, shakes his head. “I would be a clumsy thief, indeed, if I went about confessing what I was _before_ I pilfered my intended loot, and I did say that I was one of the best,” he replies. “Nay, milady, the only thing of value I’m hoping to steal is your time.” And should that go well, perhaps a kiss or two. He’s not a philanderer, never has been one despite his other sins, but she already has him bewitched with nothing more than her name.

“And I’m supposed to trust you?” she asks.

“A little faith never hurts.” He drops his voice, leaning forward. “I think you want to.” He meant to tease, to garner another rare beatific smile from her, but an inexplicable look comes over her face at his words, as if he’s said something crucial.

The look is gone as swiftly as it appeared, replaced by a smirk. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Anyone who trumps the law has to be bold, don’t you think?” he says.

“Or idiotic,” she adds, and he likes this—her quick, shameless rejoinders. No tittering. No demurring.

“I prefer ‘daring,’” he says, biting his lip. “I might even be willing to call myself ‘reckless’—but never foolish.”

And there it is. The smile. It dawns across her features like morning light, and it is _glorious_. He wants to live in a world where she reserves the expression just for him. He misspoke. He’s every kind of fool when it comes to her—which is absolutely mad, but he strangely doesn’t care.

“And you,” he says. “You’re reckless, too.”

She raises a brow. “Because I’m chatting with a thief in a seedy pub?”

He makes a noise of agreement. “And enjoying yourself, I think.” She gives him another smile, and there flies any tendril of doubt that he’s a complete and utter goner. “Why have you come here, Just Regina?” he asks, suddenly needing to know everything about her.

“Not for the refreshments, I can tell you that much.” She makes a face at the pewter tankard on the table, and he laughs.

“Such is the plight of the common folk, but we make do,” he says. “Are you going to be coy and never answer my question?”

Color bleeds into her cheeks again, and she looks down, idly tracing the wood grain of the table with a slender finger. “Do you believe in…” She trails off, and when she remains silent, he ducks his head in an attempt to recapture her attention.

“Do I believe in what?” he prods, his heart pounding in his chest. There is a weight to her unfinished inquiry, as if once she speaks the rest, everything will change.

She brings her gaze to meet his, and the hope and terror warring in her wide, vulnerable eyes wicks his breath away. He wants to tell her that she’s perfectly safe, but before he can manage a single word, she’s standing. “This is stupid,” she says. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Now _he_ is afraid, for he knows as surely as the moon rises each night that he will never see her again should she walk out that door. “Please,” he beseeches, grasping her wrist. “Don’t leave, Regina.”

She glances at his tattoo as her lips part with a simple question. “Why?” Her tone is brusque, belied by the tiniest quiver in her voice, and he thinks that some part of her wants him to convince her to stay. It’s a challenge he is more than happy to accept.

He draws her back to the table, encourages her to sit again, this time by his side. She smells of lavender and lye—clean and fresh—and he can hardly believe that she willingly suffers being near a man who bathes in the river and makes his bed in the woods.

“You haven’t told me your favorite color,” he says with a grin.

Her brows pinch together in a sardonic expression. “My favorite color? Is that the best you can do?”

“Not at all.” He hasn’t released her hand yet, and she’s made no complaint. Emboldened, he leans into her, just a hairsbreadth, and murmurs, “If I told you that I’m beginning to believe that fate had a hand in our meeting tonight, I have the strange feeling you might flee.”

“You believe in fate?” She sounds so young, so exposed, and he knows there is only one reply to give.

“Yes.” He’s always hated the notion that some unseen force is directing his life, leading him along with strings, but if all the gloom in his past has, in some way, lead him to this moment, perhaps that force isn’t as malevolent as he once believed.

She smiles—almost—as she tilts her head, hope radiating from her again like a siren call begging for embrace. “Do you think that someone can get a second chance, even if…” She sucks in a deep breath. “Even if they’ve been touched by darkness?”

“I do.” He has to. Otherwise he’ll be eternally damned by the things he’s done—unspeakable acts that make him acutely unworthy of her. And yet, he clings to the belief that he can one day be free of that bleak history, that he can become so changed that recalling it would be as though recalling someone else’s deeds. Until now, he hasn’t known how he might achieve such a complete estrangement from his past. He thinks the answer, at least in part, might lie with her.

She gives him a glassy stare, wet with unshed tears, and he dares to hope that he is somehow her answer too—as daft as the idea seems. “You do?” she asks.

He nods. “Yes.”

Without preamble, she closes the bare distance between them and presses her mouth into his. Her unexpected kiss stuns him more thoroughly than being struck by a thunderbolt, and he doesn’t return it at first—not until she makes as if to end this too-brief interlude. He follows her retreat with fervor, deepening the kiss to let her know that her surprise is most welcome. Has it ever been like this before? This _fire_, this craving to have _all_ of her, not merely a body to keep him warm?

When the need for air exceeds his need to taste her, he breaks off the kiss and rests his forehead against hers, grinning. “I can’t say I dislike this turn of events.”

Her laugh is soft and dry and _beautiful_. But her good humor is fleeting, face falling in sudden distress as she backs away.

“What is it?” he asks, reaching up to caress her cheek.

She closes her eyes, leans into his touch as naturally as if they have shared this gesture a hundred times before. This moment passes too quickly also, and she’s grasping his hand, pulling it away from her with a heavy sigh. “I’m married.”

_That_ surprise is most _un_welcome, and it’s almost a physical blow. He’s nearly tempted to curse it all, to pursue her anyway. He _is_ a thief, isn’t he? Does it matter that the treasure he steals this time comes in the form of a woman rather than gold and jewels? And he wants her more than all the glittering wealth in this realm.

As he looks at her, though, he cannot bring himself to play the insolent rogue. Honor has ever been a virtue foreign to him, but he’ll embrace it now for her sake—even if it means losing her. The fates are unkind, after all. He forces his mouth open, to shape an apology for his untoward manner and beg his leave (as desperately as he doesn’t want to go), but she speaks over him.

“It was an arranged marriage—one I didn’t want,” she explains in a flurry of words, “and I’m so unhappy.” The last of her confession comes out as a broken plea, as though she is begging him to help her escape her gilded cage. Would it not be honorable to rescue her from the devil she calls husband? And who is this man who does not see fit to give her every joy she deserves and more? Robin is grasping at a flimsy justification, he knows, but she has given him a reason to hope once more.

“It was fate that brought me here,” she goes on, “by way of a fairy named Tinkerbell.”

He raises a brow. “Tinkerbell?”

Regina nods. “I know. It’s a ridiculous name.” She bites her lip as if she is uncertain whether to tell him the rest. “She used pixie dust to help me find my…soulmate. The guy with the lion tattoo.”

He looks down at the mark above his wrist, long a symbol of darkness and despair, but now something else. Something better. He’s a little frightened that they are, in actuality, destined to be together—that these intense, baffling feelings are rooted in something more permanent than a flight of fancy—but he’s frightened far more by the prospect of not having her.

“Well,” he says, meeting her gaze again, “I suppose there is no one better to run away with than an outlaw.”

She almost smiles again, shoulders sagging in relief. “You would?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. There’s no going back now.

“Even though this all seems crazy?”

“Oh, this is quite mad.” He laughs. “But even so, yes.”

“Even if I told you that—” she leans forward to finish the rest as a whisper against his ear before drawing back, “—I’m the queen.”

The _queen_? She must be testing him, or completely unhinged, or—no. The uncertainty, the fear of his rejection in her expression is unmistakably real. She isn’t lying. He vaguely remembers hearing of the king’s new young bride a year or so ago (was it more than that?). The news which hadn’t seemed terribly pressing then has become absolutely vital now. This encounter has gone from impending infidelity to treason. Is she worth his head on the chopping block?

Yes. Unequivocally _yes_. Her cage may be more gilded than he believed, but it’s still a cage. And he still wants her.

He takes her hand in his, holds it against his chest. “Even then,” he says. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“You _are_ an idiot,” she says, though her mouth stretches in that wide, breathtaking smile he’s growing fond of.

“Apparently, that’s your type,” he returns, alluding to her tale of fairies and pixie dust.

She laughs, and he pulls her into him to capture her unfettered elation in a kiss hungrier and more primal than the first. She turns boneless against him, and yes, a lifetime of this won’t be enough. He tangles his fingers in her hair, inhales her as if he could make her a part of him, and still he wants more. The king was a fool to ignore such a woman, but Robin will gladly make up for his folly.

There is the pounding of fists against tables, shouts of encouragement coming from the direction of his companions, and she ends the kiss with an embarrassed smile. He glances over her to find Little John and the others raising their tankards in salute. Robin chuckles and shakes his head.

“I apologize for my friends,” he says to Regina. “They’re good men, if a tad uncouth.”

She looks over the motley bunch. “That’s your crew?” When he answers in the affirmative, she asks, “And you’re their leader?”

He grins. How very perceptive his lady is. (And he likes that—_his_ lady.) “For better or for worse,” he replies. “Though why they follow me, I’ll never know.”

“The prince of thieves,” she asserts in a light tone.

He forces a laugh, knowing she speaks in jest, but her statement hits too near a truth he’ll have to reveal soon enough. Not yet, though. “Would you care to go somewhere,” he asks, “with less of an audience?”

She stares at him for a beat, as if making her final choice between her palatial prison full of luxury but devoid of happiness and spending the rest of her days on the run with a common bandit who is her supposed soulmate—but who is still a virtual stranger to her. Robin has no illusions that her decision is an easy one, as much as he wishes she will choose him.

Please, let her choose him.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t contain his broad grin as he rises and offers her a hand. “Shall we, milady?”

They exit with another round of cheers from his men, and he hopes she hasn’t heard the more salacious remarks hollered in their direction. Not that he doesn’t want _that_, too—all in due time—but she’s far more than a dalliance to him. This isn’t love, but as she laces her fingers with his and smiles at him, he knows love is not far off. Strange, that. How at ease he is with the idea. How he wants it.

He leads her out of the cobblestoned village, toward the forest where he and his men have made camp for the night, and she follows with implicit trust. He marvels at that, is inspired by it to be a better man, though he doesn’t quite know _how_ yet. She is sacrificing everything for him; his offering in return should be at least equal to hers.

“Well, well, well,” a nasally voice interrupts the silence. “Don’t you make a lovely pair? A thief and a queen. Who would have thought?” The question is punctuated with an unsettling giggle.

Regina stiffens, tightens her grip on Robin’s hand as he steps in front of her. He grips the dagger strapped to his belt, wishing he had his bow and quiver. “Show yourself,” he commands.

Out of the shadows steps a cloaked figure, short and spry, but exuding danger as though he or she were ten paces tall.

“No,” Regina whispers behind Robin.

“Oh, yes,” the cloaked being says, throwing back _his_ hood. Robin has heard tales of the great sorcerer with mottled skin and eyes like a crocodile. Rumpelstiltskin. The creature bares his craggy teeth in a grin as he advances on them.

“We have no quarrel with you, Dark One,” Robin says, further shielding Regina. “Let us pass in peace.”

“Ah, but you see,” Rumple returns, holding up a finger, “I have a quarrel with you—with your new sweetheart to be precise. We had an agreement.”

Agreement? Is this what she had meant when she mentioned being touched by darkness. Robin swallows back the fear rising like bile in his throat. “Whatever debt she owes you, I will pay it.”

“How surprisingly noble of you, thief!” Rumple claps with malicious delight. “Betcha didn’t know you had it in you. Unfortunately, there are no cancelations or transfers.”

“Please!” Regina begs, clinging to Robin. “I just want to be happy!”

“Not part of the deal, dearie!” Rumple shouts back. “You should have considered the consequences before you enlisted my services. It’s too late now.” The last is delivered in the disturbing cadence of a nursery rhyme.

Robin draws his dagger. “Stand down, monster,” he says with more courage than he feels. “You’ll have her over my dead body.”

Rumple cackles, undeterred by Robin’s paltry threat. “I thought you’d never ask.” His hand darts forward, digging into Robin’s chest before tearing something out of it.

Robin’s knees crack against the ground at the sudden agony ripping through his body. Regina’s screams seem to echo in the distance as Robin makes a futile attempt to catch his breath. He looks up to see a glowing orb pulsing in Rumple’s hand—his heart.

“It’s a little dark,” Rumple comments with an exaggerated wince, “but then, you already knew that. Shall we get on with it?” He gives the organ a squeeze, and pain lances through Robin once more.

“Stop!” Regina yells, stepping around Robin. “I’ll go with you if you let him live.”

“Regina, no!” Robin croaks, but cannot manage further protest as it feels as though something is crushing his ribcage.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rumple chides, fingers digging deeper into Robin’s heart. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to interrupt?”

“Stop it, please!” Regina pleads again. “Let him go!”

Rumple’s scaly lip twitches with chagrin. “Oh, all right,” he says. “But only because you said please.” He shoves the organ back into Robin’s chest without ceremony, and Robin gasps at the pain.

Rumple holds out his hand toward Regina impatiently. “I’m sorry,” she says to Robin as she goes to the creature, cheeks glistening with tears.

Robin is on his feet again, blade in hand. “Know this, Dark One,” he growls in a hoarse voice. “I will free her of you, however long it takes.”

Rumple lets out another of his unnatural giggles. “There you go again, being noble,” he says. “Won’t do you much good, though, since you won’t remember any of this.”

“What?” Regina interjects, eyes rounding with horror.

“Yes, dearie,” Rumple says. “I can’t have you mooning over each other—yours is not the True Love I’m invested in. I have other plans for you, and your noble little thief has an appointment with a poor farmer’s horse in a day or two.”

“I will find a way,” Robin counters, though deep in his gut, he knows he’s lost. Her. Everything. He’s never known despair like this before.

Rumple leans down and murmurs, “We will meet again, and maybe then I’ll bother to learn your name as I’m flaying the skin from your bones.” He laughs as though his threat is nothing more than a joke. “Sleep tight.”

He blows dust into Robin’s face, and the last thing he sees before the world goes black is Regina, his beautiful lady, hand over her mouth as she weeps.

* * *

Someone is shaking Robin, hard and rather insistently. He rolls over, swinging his arm to fend off the brute accosting him. He looks up with bleary eyes to find Little John standing over him with the others crowding nearby.

“You left to take a piss,” Little John says as he helps Robin up. “We worried when you didn’t come back.”

Robin frowns. He doesn’t recall leaving the pub, didn’t think he had that much to drink. “I must have passed out.” That doesn’t feel right, but there can be no other explanation.

“Clearly.”

Robin shakes off the sense that he’s missing something—likely born from that batch of bad mead. “Let’s go back to camp,” he says. “And tomorrow we’ll see what bounty this sad little village has to offer us.”

Little John claps a hand on Robin’s back as the others roar in agreement. Robin doubts there is anything here he and his men need or want, but it seems like he should take something from this place.

So he will.

**~FIN~**


	8. Opposing Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regina couldn’t say when she started to look forward to seeing Robin Locksley as her courtroom adversary, but by the time she figured out that she might feel something more for the bedraggled attorney who kept her on her toes, she learned her burgeoning affection might be misplaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/PG  
Genres: Modern AU, Non-magical AU, Lawyers/Attorneys, Fluff, Romance

**OPPOSING COUNSEL**

How could Regina have been so _stupid_? 

She had hated Robin Locksley from the moment he started his opening argument in the first case they shared. Hated more the tiny smirks he would lob in her direction during trials, the subtle double entendres he slid into their brief conversations—_heated_ conversations—on the courthouse steps. She hated everything about him from his accent to his just-rolled-out-of-bed cavalier attitude to those teasing blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. He was infuriatingly unprofessional and somehow managed to be the only attorney who could equal her in the courtroom (and she was a force to be reckoned with). It was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. 

She couldn’t say when their near screaming matches had transformed into playful banter or when his clichéd innuendos started to make her smile rather than roll her eyes. Or when her chagrin at seeing him seated as opposing counsel changed to a thrill blossoming in her stomach. That didn’t mean she _liked_ him, she reasoned when things became different between them. He challenged her when she had become too complacent, too lazy from lack of real competition. That was all. 

Only it wasn’t. 

His dimpled grins made her skin warm, and when his gaze lingered a beat past decency, when it would drop fleetingly to take _all_ of her in—as if he wanted to take the time to appreciate every line, every contour, but didn’t for whatever reason—the cells in her body seemed to come alive. He brought a coffee for her every time they had an early morning hearing. He dropped off a carton of chicken noodle soup from his favorite diner and a box of tissues when he heard she was sick. And that one time they met over drinks and her alcohol-loosened tongue had spilled out a few of her self doubts ingrained by Cora, he placed his hands over hers as he told Regina with aching sincerity that she was a beautiful, amazing woman and her mother could sod off. 

Oddly enough, over the last few months, he had become her friend. Maybe the best one she’d ever had. 

So, of course she didn’t think twice about spontaneously swinging by his firm to discuss settlement options. She also didn’t think twice about the fluttery anticipation in her middle as she crossed the rain-slicked road with an umbrella in one hand and a pair of Americanos in the other. They would barter back and forth until she made a sardonic retort, and he would laugh that soft, raspy laugh that turned her insides gelatinous. It would be a better way to spend her morning than in the quagmire of discovery—with the added bonus of being billable. Win-win, as he liked to say just before she reminded him that there was no such thing in their profession.

Wearing a hint of a smile, she pulled open the door to his offices. The receptionist greeted Regina as she closed her umbrella. They exchanged perfunctory comments on the weather, and the girl told her to go on back, that Mr. Locksley was free. Regina’s smile widened as she walked down the hallway. Robin stepped out of his office, and her heart started bouncing around her ribcage. Why did his disheveled good looks always catch her by surprise? As if she hadn’t seen him the day before as they stood in sidebar, debating the admissibility of evidence through clenched teeth before an impatient judge. 

Behind him, a woman emerged, statuesque with long sable locks and smooth olive skin—and a very pregnant belly. She gave Robin a beatific grin, murmured something about him picking up Roland from gymnastics after work. Regina’s stomach twisted as Robin gave the other woman an affectionate embrace, and she was gone before the kiss that was surely coming next could be burned into her retinas, the coffee she brought carelessly left on some paralegal’s desk. 

It wasn’t until she exited his building straight into the downpour that she realized she had left her umbrella inside. But she couldn’t bring herself to go back to retrieve it. She couldn’t face him so close on the heels of the revelation that he had a life—a _family_—outside of court and the occasional business lunch she shared with him. She knew about his son, he waxed as verbose about him as she did about Henry, but it never occurred to her that he might have a wife to round out the picture. Regina had to have been transposing her experience as a single parent onto him. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

She knew better than to open up to people, to let down the cold, aloof demeanor she had adopted so many years ago to protect herself. One way or another, the people she cared about let her down. She knew she wasn’t being fair to Robin. It wasn’t as if he had extended anything beyond friendly rivalry. No, she had led herself on. She let her thoughts run away with the possibility that they could grow to be more, and now she was walking in the rain, pretending that the wetness on her cheeks had nothing to do with the stinging in her eyes. 

“Regina!” 

She stopped, but didn’t turn around. Not yet. Not when the mere sound of his voice made her chest ache so acutely that her lungs could no longer function properly. She _loved_ him. And she hadn’t known it until this moment. He called her name again, closer now, and she sucked in a steeling breath before spinning to face him. He held her cherry red umbrella open above his head, frowning as he took in her waterlogged appearance. 

“You forgot this,” he said with a tentative smile. 

She shook her head. “Keep it.” She began to walk away—to flee because unrequited love _hurt_—but he was yanking her beneath the protection of the umbrella, just a hairsbreadth from him. 

“Are you trying to catch your death?” he asked with both amusement and irritation.

“It would be the only way you could win in the courtroom, Locksley,” she returned. This was easier, being adversarial. She wanted to go home and lick her wounds, but the man wouldn’t let go of her arm. 

“My track record says otherwise.” His expression turned serious. “Aurora said you stopped by. Why didn’t you at least say hello?” 

“I have an appointment with a client.” By the dubious look he gave her, he knew she was lying. She glanced at the pedestrians scurrying through the torrent in colorful raingear before turning back to him. “I didn’t want to intrude on your private moment.” 

He cocked his head, brows furrowing. “Private moment?” he asked. “Do you mean Marian? My ex-wife?” 

Regina stared at him as hope surged like wildfire in her veins. “Your ex-wife?” 

The lines in his face softened and one of his dimples became pronounced as he gave her his trademark half-grin. “Yes,” he said. “We met at university. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until Roland was a year old that we realized we were together merely because our relationship looked good on paper.” 

“I’m sorry.” Regina wasn’t, though. 

“Don’t be,” he said. “The divorce and subsequent aftermath was and has been amicable. In fact, that’s how it’s always been between us—amicable, but rather passionless. She’s remarried two years now and expecting her second child. Roland is thrilled to be a big brother.” 

Raindrops pounded against the umbrella in a dull roar as Regina tried to formulate a response. As an attorney she knew better than to jump to conclusions before having all of the data, but she had allowed herself to become too emotionally invested in, well, _him_. And rationality was never her heart’s forte. 

Robin blew out a deep sigh. “Regina, we can’t—” another sigh, “—I can’t go on like this.” 

And just like that, her newborn hope was doused by reality. He probably saw it, too—that they were blurring the line between colleagues and something more. Her feelings must have been obvious, and he was letting her down easy. “You’re right,” she said, squaring her shoulders and donning her professional mask. “Our friendship could be construed as a conflict of interest since we’re representing opposing parties. It’s not fair to our cli—” 

“Would you shut up for once?” he cut her off with an incredulous laugh. “You impossible woman, you never let me finish!” He inhaled as if to steady himself. “Now, what I’m trying to say is I can’t go on pretending as if I’m not madly in love with you.” 

Regina blinked. He was _what_? “You’re what?” 

“I am in love with you,” he said, scooting infinitesimally closer to her. “I have been since the first time you dressed me down in court. I’ve never dared to hope you might feel the same about me—not until you were upset when you saw me with Marian.”

“I wasn’t upset!” Regina scoffed, but he held up a finger to keep her from expounding on that falsehood. 

“The evidence would suggest differently.” He peered down at her, pale eyes cutting into her. “I’d like to stop choosing clients based solely on whether or not the case would be within your purview. I’d like—” he leaned forward, his breath fanning over her lips, “to see you when there are no judges or jury or clients involved. I love you.” 

Tears welled in her eyes as she grabbed him by his rumpled tie (_single_ Windsor knot, tsk, tsk) and pulled him down to her. The umbrella fell to the sidewalk as he expressed the depth of his affection with both hands tangled in her soggy hair and his mouth on hers. 

He tasted like home.

**~FIN~**


	9. Person of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin, a retired criminal psychologist, is called to the police station to evaluate a suspect, but there is something about her that draws him to her in a twisted version of attraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T/PG-13  
Genres: Alternate Universe, Law Enforcement AU, Drama, Suspense  
WARNING: Dark/Disturbing Themes

**PERSON OF INTEREST**

Robin stands in the dark observation room, staring through the one-way mirror into interrogation. On the other side sits a woman, petite in too-large green hospital scrubs. The harsh florescent lights makes her skin sallow, dulls the sheen of her dark tresses. Her wrists are manacled to the metal table, though she leans on her elbows with confidence, her posture relaxed—imperious, even. Her profile is veiled by her hair, but he can easily imagine that her face is devoid of any emotion. Except, perhaps, bald triumph.

This woman is exactly where she wants to be.

And that makes her dangerous.

Chills pool at the small of Robin’s back. He shouldn’t be here. He’s been out of the game since that horrific day which cost him more than he was willing to pay. This is now Jim Hopper’s domain, but when David called, there was something in his tone, cracking at the edges. The seasoned police lieutenant was unnerved.

“We need you on this one,” David said. “I think…I think she’ll chew Jim up and spit him out.”

Robin wishes he hadn’t agreed to come in. There are too many ghosts from the past lingering in this precinct. Memories he has shut away for the sake of his sanity—for the sake of his young son.

“You don’t believe me.” The woman’s smoky alto crackles through the tinny speaker next to the window.

Detective Emma Swan sits on the other side of the table, expression unreadable. “Would you believe you?”

“If my mind were as small as yours,” the woman counters with a ghost of laughter in her voice, “then I suppose not.” She hunches forward and says in a conspiratorial murmur, “And what about him? Do you think he’ll believe me?”

Emma’s brows furrow. “Who?”

The woman lifts a finger and swivels it toward the mirror. “Your man behind the glass.” She turns her head in a languid movement and smirks, her dark eyes falling on Robin as if no partition exists between them. “Why don’t you invite him in?”

The air in his lungs becomes solid, unbreathable. She is stunning. And predatory. Objectively he knows that her beauty is no greater than any other woman who scores well on the golden ratio, but somehow she is his personal siren. Beckoning him toward her—toward his doom—with the song of her piercing gaze, the curve of her full lips lacquered red. He blinks to break the unnatural connection, looks away even as his heart thrums in erratic cadence. (Of course she guessed someone was behind the mirror. She couldn’t have _known._)

_Dangerous_.

“Let’s start with a simple question,” Emma says. “What’s your name?”

In his periphery, the woman glances back at the detective, and he exhales, sags against the window frame at the cold flush of relief. He should leave; he’s no longer equipped to deal with psychotics and sociopaths despite his past. Especially one who fascinates him as much as she unsettles him—and she is _relentlessly_ fascinating.

“You’re boring me,” the woman answers after a moment of silence. “I’m done talking to you.”

“Don’t tell me you want a lawyer now.” Emma levels her with a flat stare, but the other woman is unfazed.

In fact, she laughs. “Please. I don’t need some ambulance chaser to coddle me.” Her words are thick with sarcasm.

“Well, what do you think?”

The deep voice nearly startles Robin. He’s been too engrossed in the exchange between the two women to notice David entering the observation room.

Robin swallows down the building tightness in his throat. “It’s hard to make an accurate assessment without speaking with her,” he says, grateful that his misgivings don’t seep into his professional tone. “But I’m seeing possibilities for Antisocial Personality Disorder, Narcissism—perhaps even Schizoaffective Disorder. What did she initially refer to herself as?”

“The Evil Queen.” David shakes his head, though it’s clear he’s still affected by the scene she made when she arrived, heart clasped in bloodied hands. She claimed it belonged to her lifelong nemesis: David’s wife. Robin knows only too well the frenetic terror that his old friend experienced in that moment. Unfortunately, he’ll never know the balm of hearing his wife’s voice again as David did. Robin was denied that solace.

He sucks in a deep breath. “Dissociative Personality Disorder is another option, then.”

David glances at the women on the other side of the glass. “I don’t think Emma’s getting anywhere,” he says. “Do you want to take a shot at her?”

Not particularly, Robin wants to say. Though he’s out of practice, he’s had years of experience dealing with the criminally insane—trained at Quantico shortly after his arrival in the States. But this woman, she’s something more. Interviewing her feels akin to Clarice Starling meeting Dr. Hannibal Lecter for the first time. No, worse. Because Robin is drawn to her, _attracted_ to her, though admitting it churns the bile in his stomach.

He gives David a nod and follows him out of the door, ignoring the thread of trepidation tying knots in his chest.

“We just got the test results back,” David says, offering Robin a file. “I don’t know if it’ll be of any use to you in there, but just in case.”

Robin flips it open, brows rising in surprise as he scans the report. He’s not sure how this all fits together—if it does at all. Mental illness is not a puzzle where the pieces miraculously snap into place.

“Good luck.” David gives him a grim smile and heads back toward his office.

Robin waits a beat, then another before reaching for the careworn doorknob. It feels gelid against his palm as he turns it, the latch releasing with a soft click. Emma looks up when he steps inside, though the other woman doesn’t glance in his direction. Not until he steps around the table. The grin that curls the corners of her mouth is inhuman. Hungry, like a hunter toying with her prey.

“So, you’ve decided to join us after all.” She gives him a measuring look, smile growing wider, and instinct tells him that she reciprocates that perverse attraction. “You can leave,” she says, eyes flicking back to Emma in dismissal. “The adults are going to talk now.”

Emma raises her hands as if all too happy to surrender the interrogation to Robin. She repeats David’s parting sentiments as she leaves. The thud of the door shutting behind her reverberates in the small room, and Robin is taken with a claustrophobic sense of utter isolation.

The self-declared Evil Queen looks up at him, manicured brow lifted in expectation. As he takes the seat vacated by Emma, he adopts a clinical demeanor, determined to hide how deeply she rattles him. He can’t lose his footing before the first word is spoken. David is right; she would eviscerate Jim—simply because it amused her. Robin hates that this revelation only serves to pique his interest further, that she reminds him of the adrenaline rush from his days spent in rooms like this one, studying society’s most reprobate.

“I’m Dr. Locksley,” he says by way of introduction. He considers his next words, uncertain if it’s wise to make this gambit. “Shall I address you as ‘Your Majesty’?” There are times when the only way to get through to a subject is to pander to his or her delusions.

She tilts her head, still smiling that abominable smile. “Are we playing a game, Dr. Locksley?”

The question is odd, but then, the thought patterns of the mentally unstable are neither linear nor rational. “Do you want to play a game?”

She huffs a soft laugh, gaze dipping downward to take him in again. “Maybe later,” she says with raw promise. “You and I both know that you don’t believe that I’m the wicked stepmother out of fairy tale. Don’t worry, you will. But for now, you may call me Regina.”

His fingertips leave damp prints on the manila file he clasps too tightly in his hand. “Regina…” he trails off, leaving her space to fill in the blank.

“Mills,” she supplies easily, as though she hadn’t spent the last hour refusing to give Emma even this much. “I wouldn’t waste your time searching your databases. I’m not in any of them.”

“Regina Mills is an alias, then?” Robin doesn’t expect her to confirm this, but he felt compelled to ask for the camera embedded in the ceiling, recording this session.

Her shoulder rises in a brief shrug. “If that’ll make you feel better,” she says. “I’m disappointed. These questions are as boring as hers were.” She smirks at him, as though her statement laid out an imaginary chessboard, and she’s daring him to make a move. And he _wants_ to. He misses the turbid anticipation sluicing through his veins as he takes on this kind of deadly challenge. He wants to dissect her psyche, and see all the cogs that make her tick.

He’s forgotten how strong the pull is toward this singular high, how he used to chase after it until—

Until the game became the death of Marian.

Guilt settles like poisoned sediment in his gut. Because he _still_ wants to play. Even though this woman, Regina, has clearly begun to fixate on him (like Keith Allen had). Even though her striking beauty incites a different sort of sickly proscribed thrill.

“You allege that you killed Mary Margaret Noland,” he says, knowing later he’ll regret not walking away from his drug of choice.

Regina smiles at him as though they are merely having a pleasant conversation over coffee. “Is that what she called herself? I shouldn’t be surprised. She could be so…vanilla.” She settles back in her chair. “I didn’t lay a finger on her. You could say that I outsourced the job.”

“You hired a hit man?” Robin raises a brow; this clarifies one of several mysteries shrouding this woman.

“A huntsman,” she corrects, referencing the story collected by the Grimm brothers. “Pot-ay-toe, pot-ahtoe.”

Her back is straight—_cocksure_—as she holds his gaze while he studies her. She is wholly committed to her fantasy, so utterly that were she inclined, she could be quite a successful cult leader, preying on weak minds desperate for guidance. He rubs a finger across his lips, stalling as he considers whether or not to shatter the illusion yet. She doesn’t know that Mary Margaret lives. He’d recommended against telling her when David called—not until they could adequately gauge her mental health or lack thereof.

Robin decides to explore her twisted fairy tale further before tearing it apart. “You had her killed because she was…the fairest.”

Regina laughs, the dulcet sound laced with mockery. “Don’t be so prosaic, Dr. Locksley,” she says. “Your storybooks have it wrong.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“With pleasure,” she says, eyes flashing with gratification. “Once upon a time there was a daughter of a fallen prince, barely more than a girl, who fell in love with a stable boy…” She spins a riveting tale of treachery, of murder, of a controlling mother willing to destroy her daughter’s happiness to fulfill her own dreams, of an arranged marriage, loveless and empty—of a young princess who was the catalyst for so much misery by virtue of telling one small secret. Robin listens with rapt attention as Regina unapologetically admits her consuming need for vengeance and the lengths she went to in order to achieve it. Training in magic under Rumplestiltskin, the towns she razed, searching for Snow White. Deals made. Lives stolen. And now crossing realms.

“Not the story you grew up with, is it?” she finishes with a smirk.

“No, it isn’t,” he agrees. He could spend a month or more picking through the details to find the microscopic grains of truth woven between the carefully plaited threads of her delusion. (He’d start with the controlling mother.) This is psychosis; it has to be. But what was the impetus for the break? A death? This Daniel? And why cast herself as the villain in _Snow White_?

“The next question,” Regina says, drawing him out of his thoughts, “is whether I’ll serve out my sentence in a cement cell or if you think I qualify for a padded room. What’ll it be, doctor?”

He stares at her as another chilling possibility occurs to him. Could she be fabricating all of this in order to set up an insanity defense? It’s a clever ploy, perfectly executed. (Antisocial Personality Disorder is more likely in that case.) Even so, why make Mary Margaret her victim? Why come confess her alleged crime? The last he asks aloud.

“Bravo, dear. That’s the first intelligent question I’ve been asked since I’ve arrived.” She leans forward, mouth curved in maniacal glee. “I wanted him to know that they were never safe, no matter how far they ran, no matter how they tried to forget. I keep my promises.” The air in the room becomes oppressive with her vindication. Uncomfortably warm, dank. A bead of sweat glides down Robin's back, then another, collecting where his shirt is tucked into his trousers.

He _felt_ it. The power behind her words. Not just the unspoken warning, the hatred, but some undefinable force both frightening and enthralling. He has to end this before he’s pulled in any further. He doesn’t believe her fantastical tale, of course. But he wants to know more anyway. He wants to know everything. Especially the broken young woman underneath this madness.

Dangerous, indeed.

“I would like to show you something.” He flips open the file and pushes it toward her.

She glances at the report, frowning. “I don’t understand. What am I looking at?”

He points to the lab results. “This is the heart you brought in.” He rolls up the sleeves of his buttondown as he waits for her to interpret the data. It’s almost sweltering now.

Her jaw clenches, and he starts when the one-way mirror clatters in its frame. No, that was the air conditioner kicking on. He chastises himself for being excitable.

“A deer’s heart. So, she’s alive, then.” Regina’s expression turns lethal. “The huntsman betrayed me. Why am I not surprised? She’s always managed to charm people into believing that she’s some sweet, hapless ingénue.”

“Yes, she’s alive.”

When he reaches for the file, she grabs his hand, wrenching his wrist. She stares at the lion coat-of-arms inked on the inside of his forearm with a mixture of disbelief and horror—the first genuine emotions she’s displayed since their interview began. “That’s impossible. It can’t be,” she breathes, looking up at him. “Who are you?”

His brows furrow as he extricates himself from her grasp. She’s afraid. Of his tattoo? “I’m a criminal psychologist—”

“No!” she interrupts. “What’s your name—your _full_ name?”

“Doctor Robin Locksley.” They’ve never crossed paths before today. He would have most certainly remembered her—and more, if she’d been sane then. He smothers the disquieting wish that she was sane now.

“Robin…Locksley,” she repeats in a hollow voice, eyes growing wide. “Robin of Locksley. Robin _Hood_. No, it can’t be _you_.” She rises from her chair, as far as the handcuffs will let her, and fixes him with a searing glare. “Get out.”

He doesn’t move; he can’t. He has to know why she’s so angry, so terrified because of the mark on his arm. Why has she included him in her quixotic reverie? His training tells him that there likely won’t be a rational explanation, but he wants one nonetheless. “Regina—Miss Mills,” he begins, but she cuts him off, slamming her fists against the table.

“_I said get OUT!_”

The florescent bulbs whine above, growing brighter until the room is flooded with blinding white before exploding in a shower of glass and smoke. Robin scrambles against the wall to dodge the onslaught. In the ambient light coming from the small window in the door, he can make out the shadows of an overturned table and toppled chairs. The mirror is cracked, fissures spidering from the center to the corners in a serrated web.

His breath quickens as he searches the room for her. This is impossible. _Impossible_. He’s succumbed to mass delusion or perhaps had his own psychotic break—inspired by his return to the precinct. Maybe she was never really here at all, but an hallucination conjured by his subconscious to compel him to face the dark tangle of emotions he’s been tramping down since Marian’s violent demise.

Then _she_ is before him, unshackled, no longer attired in hospital scrubs, but dressed in something black and ethereal. Regal. Commanding. So exquisite it parches his tongue and throat. And though blood pounds in his ears, he realizes that he’s not afraid—not as he should be.

“I’ve invested years in my vengeance against Snow, and I’m not about to let them go to waste because you’ve suddenly appeared in my life.” She reaches up to caress his cheek in a strange juxtaposition to the underlying threat in her tone. “You understand that I can’t let you interfere with my plans.”

Her hand trails down his neck, presses against his sternum, and agony lances through him as skin and sinew and bone parts for her questing fingers. He cries out as she yanks, ripping something from him and sending another brutal wave of pain through him. She holds up a glowing, pulsing orb, scrutinizes it with a furrowed brow. No, not an orb. A heart. _His_ heart. And she intends to crush it.

But she won’t. He knows this with baffling surety. Because she’s a figment of his imagination? No. This is real. All of it—including every insane word she spoke. (How strangely calm he feels embracing this irrational knowledge.) And they share some kind of inexplicable—_otherworldly_—connection, though he cannot being to guess what it is. She won’t hurt him.

With a growl of frustration, she shoves the organ back into his chest, and he grunts, hand instinctively going to where hers had just been. “You don’t have to kill her,” he croaks out in desperation when he realizes that she’s leaving.

She glowers at him, the corners of her mouth pulled back in a sneer. “Oh, I beg to differ,” she hisses. “She has to pay for what she’s done.”

He understands that sentiment—even if it is unfair in her case. (According to her, Snow had been a child, after all.) He remembers his hand shaking as he held a gun to Keith’s head, the cool metal of the trigger against his fingertip. But he didn’t pull it. Doing so would have made him no better than the man who took Marian’s life. Oh, but he was sorely tempted.

“And you?” he calls to Regina’s retreating back. “What about what you’ve done.”

She spins to face him, barks a humorless laugh. “What are you, my conscience now?” There are infinitesimal cracks showing in her mask. Sadness. Resignation. Helplessness. As if a part of her secretly hopes he is…something. What?

“I don’t know what I am to you.” He ventures a step closer to her, then another. With each footfall, resolve erases the last vestiges of his fears, his doubts. He hasn’t felt such vivid purpose in years—if she would tell him what that purpose is. (This is absolute madness, but he no longer cares.) “But you know, don’t you? What am I, other than some bandit out of legend? What am I supposed to be to you?”

“You want to know? Fine,” she relents with scowl, closing the rest of the distance between them. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Without preamble, she takes his face in her hands and presses her lips against his. The kiss is aggressive, devouring, as though she’s been starved of affection for far too long and finally offered a feast. He returns it in kind, though it’s a thousand times wrong because of who she is and what she’s done. He feels as though he’s coming alive with her touch, with her fingers sliding across the nape of his neck, with his hand gripping her hip, pulling her into him. He needs this. He needs her—not the Evil Queen she portrays herself as, but the girl who lost everything (like he did). This is where she belongs.

With him. In the light.

(He’s being ridiculous, insane even, the doctor in him argues. But then, magic turned out to be real. Why not this too?)

She breaks off the kiss abruptly, sucks in a shuddering breath. “You were the choice I didn’t make,” she says, sounding vulnerable, younger. “My prophesied soul mate.”

That makes sense. Why does it make sense? “Then make that choice now.” He rests his forehead against hers. “It’s not too late for a second chance, Regina.” He has no idea of their missed opportunity, but he refuses to let the story end before it’s properly begun. After the goodness, the purity that was his late wife, _this_ is the woman—corrupted by her vendetta—he wants to know better, to kiss again. He should regret this; he doesn’t.

She closes her eyes, tears glittering on her lashes. “I can’t,” she whispers, backing away from him.

Then she’s gone. The despondent young woman is once more shut away by the vengeful monarch. “The path I’m on doesn’t include you,” she announces, drawing herself up into a stately posture. “So stay out of my way, doctor. Or should I say ‘_thief_’?” She spits the moniker like venom.

“Regina!” he calls out, reaching for her as she throws her hands up and vanishes in a torrent of violet smoke.

The door to the interrogation room bangs open, and David rushes inside weapon drawn, uniformed officers at his back. Robin has the absurd urge to laugh. Because he can see it now. The gallant, noble prince. The hero from fairy tales come to life. Of course Mary Margaret is Snow White. And Robin… Robin almost recalls the feel of the feathered fletching between his fingers as he draws back a bowstring—as though the memory is just on the periphery. How is this _possible_? (It isn’t, the doctor tells him. You’ve cracked.)

“What the hell happened in here?” David asks, taking in the disarray. “Where is she?”

Robin searches for a reasonable explanation. There isn’t one. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he says. “But she’s gone after your wife, and I’m going to help you.” Because he thinks—no, he _knows_ that he’s the only one who can end this before a single drop of blood is shed. He’s the only one Regina will listen to.

David stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t let you do that,” he murmurs. “You have your boy to think about.”

Robin shakes his head. “He’s safe.” She may snap her teeth at him, but she’ll never harm either of them. He represents the possibility of a happy ending, and she may not choose that course—not yet—but she won’t do anything to ruin that frail hope, either. The lost girl inside of her wants him to chase after her, to save her from herself.

He will do exactly that.

(May Marian forgive him.)

**~FIN~**


	10. The Devil Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regina and Robin encounter one another while under the influence of the Spell of Shattered Sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T/PG-13  
Genres: Canon Divergence AU, Dark

**THE DEVIL WITHIN**

As Snow raises her sword with a vicious smile, Regina curses the pathetic Mayor Mills for blocking her magic. However had she managed to become so _weak_, grasping at some sad little happy ending where she finds love again and creates a family? All while allowing Snow to thrive in the town Regina created for the sole purpose of tormenting her. And that feeble, watered-down version of herself had the gall to cripple her just before she returned to her majestic glory?

Regina wants to destroy everything that woman loved. Thoroughly. Viciously.

She shoves at the steely barrier to her power, claws at it in desperation as Snow’s arms swing down with a killing blow. The barrier won’t give, not yet, not fast enough, and Regina thinks at least she fought her lifelong nemesis to her last breath instead of holding hands with her in some sickly form of friendship.

But the blade never makes contact. It clatters to the ground amidst Snow’s scream of pain and outrage. She grabs at the arrow sticking out of her shoulder, breaking the shaft with gritted teeth.

“Flee now, princess,” a familiar voice commands.

It’s _him_. The man who insinuated himself into Regina’s trust, spouting flowery promises of second chances. He _ruined_ her, and she has a very special brand of torture planned for him—once she has access to her magic. She beats against the barrier again as she rises from the ground. (The damn thing is immutable. She feels almost grudging respect for her other self.)

Snow glances at the sword, looking as though she might dive for it despite Robin’s warning. He notices it as well and pulls back further on his drawn bowstring. “I swear to you, highness,” he says in a murderous voice, “if you dare to lay a finger on the queen, I will give you no quarter. She is mine. Flee _now_.”

“He can’t protect you forever,” Snow sneers at Regina. “We will finish this.”

“Yes, we will.” As soon as Regina takes care of him.

Snow is gone, and Regina turns to her savior. How quaint that the bandit is compelled to defend her, even while consumed with Shattered Sight. He really is a pitiful creature, isn’t he? Too strung out on love, apparently, to be taken by the darkness. Wholly unworthy of her. What had she been thinking when she took up with him?

He slips the arrow back into his quiver, slings his longbow over his shoulder as he crosses the distance between them—likely to offer her some kind of disgusting display of affection. Except no, that’s not relief dancing in his pale eyes. Nor is it love. But something hungrier, deadlier, and an unwelcome thread of fear sings within her chest.

“I belong to no one,” she spits at him as she backs away, scratching for even the tiniest bit of her magic, “least of all a _thief_.”

“Oh, you’re mine, all right.” He smirks, yanking up his sleeve to flash her that stupid tattoo. “Did you never wonder what this means beyond your pretty little fairy tale about pixie dust? It’s the mark of a master assassin. In fact, there’s no one better.” He leans forward and whispers against her ear, “I told you that I was a different man once, Regina. I don’t think you believed me, but I’ll gladly prove it now.”

She feels the prick of a knife pressing into her side as he draws back. His other hand, flush against her lower back, keeps her from retreating further. She will skin him alive for this.

“An arrow to the heart is too clean, too merciful for the likes of you.” He sucks in a breath with unnatural anticipation. “No, this will be rather messy. I am out of practice, after all.” He releases her, baring his teeth in a mad grin. “Do try to run. The chase will make killing you all the more satisfying.”

She smiles back. How she underestimated the gentle, valiant outlaw. It’s a pity, she thinks as she picks up Snow’s sword, that she won’t be able to use him. Who knew he could be so delightfully sociopathic. The hell they could rain down on the denizens of this town together—such a missed opportunity. But no. The other Regina had loved him, and that alone signs his death warrant.

“I don’t run from anyone, sweetheart,” she says. And there it is—_finally_—the hole in the barrier, magic seeping through in gauzy wisps until the wall corrodes to nothing. “They run from me.”

He laughs. _Laughs_. “I’m not afraid of you, Evil Queen.”

“You should be.”

His dagger thrusts forward just as she reaches for his heart.

**~FIN~**


	11. The Heart of the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king has only one thing that Robin covets, and by hook or crook, he’ll find a way to steal it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T/PG-13  
Genres: Steampunk AU

**THE HEART OF THE CROWN**

She moves through the parade of sycophantic courtiers with the agile grace of a tiger—striking, _dangerous_. The bodice of her gown, twinkling with dozens of starfire diamonds, does little to hide her lithe form. The royal sapphire, half as large as a man’s palm, lies against a bosom pressed up and out by her cinched corset. Even with the ornate mask she wears made of soft, black feathers, there can be no doubting who she is.

The new queen of Myst Haven.

Robin has heard of her unparalleled beauty, of her milky complexion tinged with the barest hint of gold, of her shining raven locks, of her aphotic gaze that entices and mesmerizes. Her hard-earned smile is said to be a blessing from the gods. As he observes her from a shaded corner, he thinks rumor has not done her proper justice.

She is the fabled siren—from the days before the seas evanesced beneath the obsidian smoke of industry, before the fair and wealthy took to the firmament for want of unpolluted breath. By virtue of being, she is the song that lures men blissfully to their deaths. A wise man would keep well away from the scope of her influence. A coward would flee at the mere sight of her. But Robin is neither wise nor cowardly. He sees in her a challenge, one that sends a thrill of anticipation crackling across his sinews like the arc of lightning in one of Doctor Frankenstein’s proscribed experiments.

Robin won’t approach her, though, not until the throng of adulators recedes into the anonymity of the assemblage. He wanders along the perimeter of the ballroom as he waits, hears the quiet hum of the imperial citadel’s great engines vibrating through the steel walls, but his gaze is ever fixed on her. On the slenderness of her gloved hand as she accepts a proffered kiss from one gentleman or another. On the downward turn of her full lips when she’s not forced to paint a gracious air for her liegemen—her parasites.

A servant glides by with a silver tray laden with champagne flutes. Robin abstains from the temptation, however. He may not be wise, but he’s not so foolish as to lumber into her company without all of his wits about him. He does partake of the hors d’oeuvres presented by another attendant, though this excess that is his birthright sits heavy in his stomach. He won’t think of the baseborn masses who toil in the perennial gloom of smoke and steam to provide this decadence for the indolent nobility. Tonight he has other sins to commit.

The evening waxes late before he gravitates near his mark. He winds through the crowd, and her gaze finds his once, twice, thrice. First insouciant dismissal, then tepid interest, and finally tacit invitation. The corners of his mouth threaten with a triumphal grin, but he tramps it down. Celebration is not yet on the horizon.

“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing low at the waist before her. She holds out her hand in practiced expectation, and he brushes a kiss over her knuckles. “May I be so bold as to request the honor of a dance with our fair queen?”

She tilts her head as she takes his measure. His heart quickens at the languid trail her gaze makes from his eyes to his polish boots and back. “You are bold,” she returns in a resonant alto with curiosity rather than offense. “Fortunately for you, I am feeling magnanimous at the moment.”

“Very fortunate indeed.” He offers his elbow as an escort, and her fingers slide over the sleeve of his viridian coat in acceptance. He feels the interest of the cortege pressing on them as they make their way to the floor; she hasn’t allowed any other to engage her for the whole of the ball.

The orchestra strikes up a waltz with a drowsy tempo. He smiles at her as they take position, but reservation is written in her eyes, as if she’s uncertain now of her impetuous decision. With that simple flicker of expression, half-hidden by her mask, she suddenly appears young, vulnerable. She is, perhaps, not quite the cold, detached Venus she portrays to the multitude, and his chest tightens at the revelation.

“You are as light of foot,” he murmurs to ease the tension he feels cording in her back beneath his palm, “as you are stunning.”

She makes a noise of derision. “Flattery. How novel.”

He laughs softly. “Flattery is less likely to put one’s head on the chopping block.”

She smiles, then. Not the schooled pretense of delight, but the stretch of authentic amusement. He regrets the full effect of her pleasure is concealed behind a swath of inky plumes. “True,” she concedes. “But I’ve had my fill of insincerity for the night.”

“I assure I was sincere in every way.” He spins her under his arm and back to him, close enough to flank the edge of decency—close enough to send the gossipmongers whispering—and he’s glad she doesn’t protest. He likes the fit of her in his arms. Entirely too much.

“Where is your husband, the king?” he asks by way of reminding himself that she is no tittering courtier he can charm into a harmless dalliance. “Is His Majesty to join us before the end of the fete?”

She scowls, becomes rigid, and he realizes the question was a grave misstep. “I see,” she says. “As usual, I’m merely a stepping stone to the real authority—as if the only way into the king’s good graces is to lick his wife’s boots.”

Robin raises a brow at her crass choice of words. “You misunderstand me.” He halts their dance, though retains his hold on her. “I have no interest in garnering favor with your husband. In fact, there is only one thing he has that I covet.”

She stares up at him, lips parting as though catching the implication woven beneath his plain declaration. “I…” She shakes her head. “I need some air.”

He releases her as a tinder of disappointment flares to life. “Of course,” he says with another genteel bow. “Thank you for the interlude.”

A nod is all she gives him before making her retreat. This has not gone to plan, but then, when has anything? Still, his failure was not without consolation. The dance was lovely, if too brief. He reasons that he will have to find other means to accomplish his designs. By hook or crook, as John would say.

He straightens when she turns to face him from across the room. She darts a glance at the glass doors to the balcony and then her eyes are back on him, lingering with weighted significance. He hasn’t failed, after all. Not yet.

When he’s picked his way through the crush and out of the ballroom, he finds her standing in an alcove, out of view of the others and bathed in the supernal glow the moon. He takes a moment to appreciate her, the contours of her fine figure cast in shadow and light. She is a masterpiece, shaped by the expert hands of some artful deity, and she is untouchable.

“These—” she points to her mask as he steps next to her, “—are supposed to conceal our identities. They’re supposed to give us the chance to be someone else for the evening. But those rules don’t apply to me, do they? I’m just as much a queen in there as I am at any other time.”

His brows draw together as he contemplates her discontent. Surely she wants for nothing. “Who would you be, if not the queen?”

She presses her palms against the railing and stares up into the night sky. “Free,” she murmurs. “I’d be free.”

The answer astonishes him. True, he considered the title he inherited to be a gilded noose—one which he readily fled—but she is a monarch. Can she truly be as shackled her vassals? The thought inspires a rather disconcerting swell of compassion. Attraction, he had anticipated. This emotion, however, is something thoroughly different. His hand stretches forward almost on its own volition, and he pauses short of touching the velvety feathers of her mask. “May I?”

Her chin dips in assent, and he reaches to the back of her head, pulling the silken ribbon loose. As he removes the visor concealing her stunning features, he caresses her cheek, then down the line of her willowy neck. She is _exquisite_. That she is so clearly unhappy is a travesty.

“Does he not love you?” He whispers the question with the reverence of an acolyte granted the sight of his goddess. He cannot fathom being a husband to such a creature and not worship her.

“Love me?” She exhales with a vinegary laugh. “No. I’m a little bird he puts on display in a pretty cage.”

“Then he’s a fool.”

She stares at him, her eyes a glassy reflection of the glittering skyline. The soft rise and fall of her chest picks up in cadence as she removes his mask, fingertips grazing his shaven jawline. His blood sings at the gentle contact.

“Thousands of subjects beneath me,” she confesses, “dozens of simpering courtiers, and I’ve never felt more alone in my life.”

His gut twists at the naked pain etched in the tension between her brows. “I’m sorry.”

Her hands fist in the lapels of his coat, and she drags him to her with prurient intent. For a precarious heartbeat, he very nearly caves to her desires. But he didn’t come for this, no matter how desperately he wants it now.

“You’re married,” he murmurs a hairsbreadth from her lips.

The statement earns him another sardonic laugh. “In name only.” Her grip tightens on his coat, drawing him infinitesimally closer. He knows of this licentious game played among the nobles, where fidelity is a malleable vow and intimacy is bartered like coin at the market. He has always fallen prey to the exhilaration born from verboten pursuits, but not this. Never this.

And he is perilously close to succumbing. Because of the bitter isolation, the desperation for artless affection that radiates from her in shattering honesty. This is no mere diversion for her.

“Your Majesty,” he pleads, both praying she will give up this reckless gambit and praying she won’t.

She sags in defeat, fingers unfurling from their white-knuckled embrace. “As I said, I am not granted the freedom to pretend I’m not a prisoner of my circumstances.”

He strokes a thumb across her cheek, drying the tear which fell unnoticed by her. “You would be the death of me.”

“Perhaps,” she agrees. “Or perhaps you would be my resurrection.”

He cups her jaw, tips her head back, and inhales her. She is honeyed ambrosia, the promise of spring, the spice of summer. She is the heaven that men condemn themselves to hell for. She is the siren, and he would gaily drown for her—so long as he met his demise with the taste of her on his lips. Of all the foolhardy things he has done, this is in a class by itself. She’ll consume his memories for years to come.

He breaks away from her, sucking in a delirious breath. She stares back at him, beautifully flushed, panting, and it seems as though the very universe stills in suspense as he waits for her impending verdict.

She gives her approval with the slant of her mouth over his. He wraps an arm around her, yanks her against him, and unabashedly takes advantage of her gasp to trace her teeth with his tongue. Lascivious images take root in his mind, of her bare thighs folded around his waist. Of her arching up into his chest with euphoric sighs. How is it, he ponders as he marks a wet path from her lips to the tender flesh of her throat, that he needs her more than food or drink, more than air?

How is it that her husband forbears from this savory fruit?

She pushes him back. “I have to go back in.”

Too insensate from their intoxicating encounter, he doesn’t comprehend her meaning at first. When the letters and sounds are finally pieced together into a coherent line in his muddled brain, he frowns in chagrin. “Yes, of course.”

She glides a hand over the nape of his neck and encourages him to lean forward. “Wait a few minutes,” she whispers against his ear, “and then go to my chambers.”

She’s gone before he can compose an adequate reply.

He basks in the proposition of having his newly formed fantasies brought to life. Though every fiber of his being begs for him to accept her singular overture, he knows this must remain an unfulfilled wish. She would despise him endlessly if he stole more from her than he has already. He gave her the moment of carefree indiscretion she craved, and she gave him an eternity of dissatisfaction in return.

Well, that and the priceless jewel tucked safely in the pocket of his trousers. Which, to be fair, he acquired before their fleeting communion. His code of honor prevails.

He suffers a final glance toward the masquerade before moving the sapphire to a canvas pouch hanging from his neck. He discards both coat and waistcoat, dropping them over the side of the balcony into the ether, and absconds to the service tunnels of the great zeppelin. The passageway echoes with the rhythmic thrum of the gargantuan engines as if the ship has a heartbeat of its own. He’s grateful for the earsplitting din that covers his rapid footfalls as he dashes toward the empty quarters where he’s stashed his gear.

How long until she discovers her missing adornment and sends the king’s guard to scour the vessel for him? Not long, he wagers. He grieves that she will likely believe their entire exchange to be a finely crafted artifice. She’ll never know that nearly all of it was as real for him as it was for her.

In the neglected rooms, he retrieves his leather duster and slides a pair of goggles over the top of his head. The quiver comes next. John teases him incessantly about the antiquated weapon, but Robin is far more lethal with a bow and arrow than any man wielding a revolver. A point he’s proven over and again.

He steps out onto the small stoop that serves as an exterior terrace for the apartment, and lights a flare, tossing it into the midnight sky. He has little time to hope that the pirate, whose services he procured, will keep his end of the bargain, however. A pair of guards burst through the doors, and Robin has them both down as soon as they cross the threshold. The men grasp futilely at the shafts protruding from their respective legs.

He peeks over the side of the balcony, searching for Captain Jones’s bloater.

Two more guards try to breach the chambers. They join the others. Robin takes aim when another figure darkens the doorway. His hand is stayed when the queen steps into the room. Her face is contorted in breathtaking fury.

“Your people thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty,” he says, backing toward the railing. He hears the turbines of his escape and glances back at the ballonet rising into view, black as the smoke that pervades the earth below with a white skull and crossbones painted on the side in stark contrast.

“I will hunt you down, thief!” the queen exclaims. “To my very last breath!”

He replaces the arrow in his quiver, slings the bow over his shoulder, and stalks toward her. Fear and outrage war in her eyes as he takes her head in both hands and gives her a blistering kiss to remember him by.

“I’m counting on it, milady.”

He races toward the stoop and leaps over the balustrade, grinning madly at the ebullient feel of weightlessness before his hands and boots make purchase on the rope ladder thrown over the side of the pirate ship. He gives the queen a jaunty salute as another retinue of her guards stumbles in behind her.

“If you need a name for the Wanted poster,” he shouts before he’s beyond hearing, “I’m Robin, the disgraced Earl of Locksley!”

He may well regret baiting her thus, but he’ll regret more never again laying eyes on her magnificent visage.

So begins their contest.

**~FIN~**


	12. An Unexpected Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Missing Year, the queen makes Robin an offer that he should have refused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T/PG-13  
Genres: Missing Year, Unexpected Attraction

**AN UNEXPECTED OFFER**

As Robin bent to retrieve his slumbering son from the queen’s arms, he realized that spending hours dueling with the prince in the practice yards the day before might not have been the best idea. He winced as muscles he was rather confident hadn’t existed before cried out in agony over even the smallest movement. Sword play was wholly different than archery, and he had to grudgingly admit that he had overdone it.

He would like to blame Regina for his current predicament. (It seemed all his ills of late were centered on that maddening woman.) He had only planned to go one round with the prince. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he was a match for the expert swordsman—especially when his skills with the blade had been dormant for so many decades—but she had been there, smirking at him as she stood next to Snow White. He felt a sudden, irrational need to prove himself, to erase that condescending look from her pretty visage.

So he swung, thrust, and blocked until he was breathless, drenched in sweat. Until his forms became too sloppy to be called proper combat. He had no intentions of besting his opponent, but endeavored to equal him—or near enough. He got in a lucky strike or two. But instead of acknowledging his prowess at holding his own against a clearly superior rival, the queen had simply rolled her eyes and walked away. As usual, the entire affair was an exercise in futility.

“I haven’t had a workout like that in years,” the prince panted as he slapped Robin on the shoulder. “Never underestimate a bowman, right? Thanks, friend.”

A nod was all Robin could manage in return. He was fairly certain he was on the brink of an excruciating death. The next morning when he woke, he was sure of it.

He did a decent job of hiding his suffering throughout the day, but by night, each turn of his waist, each curve of his back had tears pricking in his eyes. His arms had become practically useless; carrying Roland to their rooms was an awkward ordeal.

Robin stared at the bed he shared with his boy, attempting to build up enough fortitude to endure the misery of leaning forward to place little Roland gently on the mattress. Standing whilst holding his son wasn’t a viable option, either. Robin’s legs, also overworked from the match, protested the added weight, as nominal as it was. With gritted teeth and a few grunts, Roland was tucked safely beneath the blankets. Now Robin only had to undress himself and settle on his side of the bed.

He was tempted to collapse into a sniveling mess instead.

Tugging on the laces to his jerkin—even that hurt—he crossed the room to the wardrobe, but stopped short when he realized he wasn’t alone.

Regina stood in the doorway, just inside of the threshold, arms crossed beneath a bosom he forcibly did not glance at (one of the many ways that he believed she liked to torment her victims) and head tilted as she studied him.

“Milady,” he said with the barest hint of a question in his voice. Though she had bonded with his son, absconding with him to some corner most evenings after supper to play games or read stories, Robin she avoided as though he were a plague.

“Your majesty,” she corrected by rote, and he bit back a smile at this familiar round in the ongoing contest between them.

“Is there something you require?” he asked.

“Not from you,” she replied, stepping farther into the room, scrutinizing him again. “I bet you couldn’t even draw a bowstring back right now.”

He raised a brow at her shamefully accurate accusation. “If lives depended on it, I assure you that I would be perfectly capable of loosing as many arrows as necessary.”

She made a derisive sound as her lips twisted into that insufferable smirk. “Yes, I’m sure you could,” she replied with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Come with me.”

He frowned at her retreating form for a heartbeat or two before deciding to accede to her demand. He couldn’t fathom what she wanted him for, and his bafflement only grew when she led him to her apartments. Perhaps she needed help moving something heavy or reaching something too high for her petite stature. (She really was quite tiny when one could ignore her overwhelming presence—a nearly impossible feat in and of itself.) Or—

“Take off your vest and shirt,” she said as she closed the door behind him.

Both of his brows climbed his forehead. Surely she didn’t intend for them to become intimate. Admittedly, she was rather striking and he wouldn’t deny that he felt a tendril of primal attraction to her, but what man wouldn’t when presented with such a stunning specimen? They were hardly acquaintances, though, and he wasn’t the sort of cad to bed a woman merely to quench his baser urges.

He cleared his throat, searching for the best way to reject her most generous offer in a manner that would not preclude another chance in the future should they be on better terms, but she spoke before he could shape the first word.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Regina said with not quite a sneer but nearly so. “I’m helping you with your problem.”

Her ambiguous statement did nothing to ease his confusion. “My problem?”

She looked toward the vaulted ceiling as she let out an exasperated sigh. “Your sore back,” she explained as if he ought to have understood. “I’m giving you a massage.”

She was giving him a massage? The monarch who despised him, who attempted to dismiss him and his ilk with a quiver’s worth of golden arrows? _She_ was going to tend to his discomfort? She was possibly the most incomprehensible creature that he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. There was, of course, the chance that she might be using this as an opportunity to inflict further injury on his person. It wasn’t likely—the Evil Queen wasn’t at all evil these days—but he was wary nonetheless.

“I appreciate your concern—”

She cut him off with a dry laugh. “You think I care about you? Please. My concern is in protecting our people from Greenie and her flying abominations. Whether I like it or not, you’re the best marksman of everyone here, and I can’t afford to have you out of commission. Now are you going to take off your shirt and vest, or do I have to magic them away?”

He flexed his jaw and glowered at her. Impossible, intolerable, infuriating woman. “When you put it that way,” he said, “how can I refuse my lady’s command?” He gave her a mocking bow—which he regretted instantly. It took incredible effort to keep the strain from his features as he straightened. Divesting himself of the unwanted clothing was equally as challenging, but he did the deed without a single groan.

Her gaze lingered on his nude torso for a breath, and his aforementioned attraction to her went from a wisp to a troublesome pool in his stomach. He was more than happy to lie down on the divan in her antechamber as she directed; he didn’t think he could bear another moment of her looking as though she was reluctantly impressed with his build. The expression awakened viscerally masculine and inappropriate thoughts, particularly coupled with the knowledge that her slender, manicured fingers would soon be working the stiff flesh of his back.

Perhaps Little John was right. Perhaps Robin should consider a quick romp with a willing wench to satiate that primitive need—especially if Regina’s sensible offer of aid inspired this unwelcome reaction. (He would never go through with it, however. Everything in his life had to have meaning and purpose, and lying with another was no exception to that rule.)

“This will hurt at first,” Regina warned as she knelt next to him.

He cast a glance at her and was surprised to discover that, with magic, she had changed from her corseted gown to something more pragmatic for the situation at hand: a billowing shirt not unlike his, though made of finer fabric, and a fitted pair of riding breeches. Her hair was down from its usual ostentatious up-do, now braided down her back, and her make-up was softened. She appeared younger, less hardened, more human. Beautiful in the way that made his mouth go dry.

This interlude was turning problematic.

But then her palms were digging into the muscles below his shoulders, and he hadn’t known such anguish since his torture at the hands of the Dark One. Robin pressed his face into the velvet brocade of the lounge to mute his pained cries. He could do with a few tankards of mead and a piece of wood to gnaw between his teeth to withstand this hell. The woman was trying to kill him.

As she massaged each corded knot, however, releasing the aching tautness, her ministrations became less agonizing. In fact, her hands kneading over his shoulders, down his upper arms, and back again was actually rather euphoric. He relaxed into the cushions, sighing as those blessed fingers dragged down his spine to that sore spot in his lower back. Mm. Yes, there. He hadn’t realized that he gave voice to that contented murmur until she chuckled softly. The raspy alto was unfettered, honest, and as glorious as her touch.

He amended his earlier complaint. She wasn’t trying to enact his demise. She was a merciful being of light and beauty. He could kiss her for rescuing him from his own folly. Oh, _how_ he could kiss her. Savor those full lips of hers too often drawn thin in a scowl. Rake his fingers through her raven locks as his other arm wraps around her trim waist. Make her boneless against him and—

No. Stop this.

He tried to quell the burgeoning _want_ by visualizing the target range; he clung to the feel of the fletching between his fingers as he nocked an arrow in his imagination, as he pulled back on the flax and let it fly. The head impaled the target at dead center, the shaft quivering from the impact. He drew another arrow and another and _dammit_ her hands were grazing his sides, thumbs pressing ever so slightly beneath the waistband of his trousers. Reason leaked from his mind, pushed out by the inborn instinct to roll over and take her with him.

One kiss. Just one little taste. Where could the harm be in that?

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. He was a better man than this. And she—well, she didn’t even _like_ him. (How he wished she did in this moment, though.) He pushed himself up, and she leapt back. He thought she might have been frightened that he would grab her, but her expression wasn’t one of fear. No, her cheeks were tinged with red. She looked more like a child caught stealing a pie that had been cooling in the kitchen window. Odd, that. Something to puzzle over later, perhaps—when he had all of his wits about him.

“All better, then?” she asked. Her tone lacked its usual bite.

He stretched as he stood, relieved that the pain had subsided significantly. “Much better, thank you.” He felt the weight of her measuring gaze as he retrieved his shirt and jerkin. He pulled the former over his head and draped the latter across his arm.

“Does anyone else have that tattoo?”

His brows drew together as he glanced at the lion crest on his forearm. It was a curious thing to ask about—however, it was an excellent detour from the pathway his thoughts had been keen on traveling. “None living,” he said. “My father was the last to bear this coat of arms.”

His answer seemed to distress her, though she made a valiant effort to hide it. Another riddle to decipher. What a complicated, unpredictable, and breathtaking woman she was.

Bothered by the sudden unpleasant tension between them, he attempted a bit of levity. “If I should fall prey to this malady again,” he said with a cheeky grin, “shall I call upon you to nurse me back to health?”

She narrowed her eyes, but her posture became less rigid and a ghost of a smile flickered in the corner of her mouth. It was enough. “Don’t push your luck, thief.”

“Never, milady.” He winked at her as he left her chambers.

Outside of her door, he leaned against the cool stone wall and blew out a sigh. He had no idea what to make of that strange encounter, but one thing he knew for certain: he wanted more from the queen, and that desire could very well mean the death of him.

But then, outlaws were never terribly invested in self-preservation in the first place.

**~FIN~**


	13. One Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She likes his smile, the way it splits his face, dimples piercing deep into his cheeks. His voice is soft, British, rasping over her skin, leaving feathery chills in its wake. And with him, she thinks she can forget for just one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
Genres: Modern AU, Non-magical AU, One Night Stand

**ONE NIGHT**

She likes his smile, the way it splits his face, dimples piercing deep into his cheeks. His voice is soft, British, rasping over her skin, leaving feathery chills in its wake. He asks questions, blue eyes fixed on hers as if each word she speaks is rapture. (Robin is his name; she likes that, too.) She lets him buy the next round, though she’s never allowed herself to become beholden to any man for any reason—particularly a stranger she’s just met at a bar. But she thinks he won’t play the tit-for-tat game. He’s too open, too guileless; a refreshing change from her world of false geniality laced with poison—all in the name of professionalism.

She sips the whiskey he’s chosen and listens as he talks of his young boy, as he admits the heartache of having to split time with his ex-wife, though he would never dream of interfering with their special mother-son bond. “Roland still comes first for both of us,” he explains, and she decides that she’ll tell him about her own shared custody agreement with Henry’s birth mother—that her son’s away with the other woman for a week. (The longest she’s been apart from him.) She’ll give her new acquaintance this cherished piece of herself because he makes her feel safe. Because the alcohol courses warmly through her veins, relaxing her defenses.

She likes the casual brush of his hand against hers, the way he laughs at some anecdote about single-parenthood. The way he’s inched closer to her, propped his head against his palm, elbow on the bar. His gaze dips to her mouth—fleetingly—but it’s enough. She’s beginning to forget what brought her here in the first place. This is a better distraction than she had originally planned. There are thoughts she doesn’t let herself think, but she thinks them now. Her pulse thrums like a wild hummingbird and her fingers quiver only a little as she caresses the lion coat-of-arms tattooed on the inside of his wrist. She’s assaying the tension curling between them and smiles at the way he bites his lip in response.

There’s a story of his time in the service, edited for her benefit, she’s certain. But her attention is latched onto his fingertips grazing the shell of her ear when he pushes a lock of her hair back. She traces a line across his jaw, appreciating the faint beard there. That, too, seems more honest than the clean-shaven businessmen who cross her path daily. They are vipers hidden inside of pretty plastic mannequins, but the man in front of her is so incredibly _human_. She can’t stop touching him. His flesh is a wonder.

She likes that he escorts her outside after last call, holds her steady with her arm twined in his. She’s a little drunk—but not on alcohol. (She hasn’t had enough to dull her good sense.) She’s drunk on possibilities. She’s drunk with the sound of his dusky timbre. She doesn’t hail a cab, not yet. Neither does he. Instead, he takes her cheeks in his hands, presses his lips against hers. It’s tender, a tentative question seeking an answer. He pulls back before she can reply with the awakening heat smoldering in her belly.

“Sorry,” he says with a rueful grin. “I don’t normally do this.”

“Me, too.”

It’s the only warning she gives him before she draws him back down to her, slants her mouth over his, wet and hungry, to erase any doubt he might have of her interest. He grasps the fine fabric of her dress at her hip, tugs her into him as he fists his other hand in her hair and breathes her in. Everything becomes suddenly sharp, _alive _when she parts her lips and he accepts the invitation.

They choose his place; it’s closer and the thought of him in her bed is too personal, too intimate for what they are about to do. His apartment is smaller, but _lived in_. He drags a hand through his hair, hurries to tidy the few toys dotting his living room and mutters sheepishly that he wasn’t planning on company tonight. She laughs quietly at his charming embarrassment and tells him that it’s fine. It’s perfect. She doesn’t tell him that it’s because of this clumsy, candid display that she’ll go through with their impulsive arrangement. She reaches for his hand, pries the Hot Wheels car from his fingers and sets it on the coffee table.

“Show me your room,” she asks with a boldness belied by the pounding behind her sternum.

He steps toward her, transforming from slightly befuddled single father to starved lover. His pale eyes are hooded, a ghost of avarice painted in his smile as if she’s become the only prize he could ever want, and her sinews grow elastic at his unfettered desire. “As the lady wishes,” he breathes over her lips.

She likes that he takes his time, but he’s not too timid. There’s a languid equilibrium between them as they kiss, as he unzips her dress, following the descent with his other hand trailing against the bare skin of her back, as she pulls his Henley over his head. He lets her savor the hard lines of his bare chest, the firmness of his abs. He worships her softness in like manner with lips and tongue chasing after fingertips.

He listens to her, follows her cues as though they are the road map to paradise. She hasn’t had a profuse companion like this, not since Daniel, and she tramps down the memory, blinks back the sudden burning in her eyes. She’s not quick enough to hide the brief aberration.

Robin pauses, brows pulled together with concern. “We can stop,” he offers.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers with a shake of her head. She pushes him over when he hesitates, straddles his hips and takes his mouth in a yawning kiss. She’s relieved when he’s once more lost to his voracious want.

Tears threaten again when he brings her to the precipice and sends her soaring, but it’s not regret that makes her face damp. It’s gratitude. He doesn’t know—he can’t—that she needed this tonight. She needed _him_. His expression is both gratified and confused as he collects the briny wetness on her cheek. She gives him a tender kiss to allay any worries stirring in his mind.

She likes that he offers her something to drink afterward. She pads after him to the kitchen, wearing his shirt, enjoying his lopsided grin and disheveled hair. (She did that.) He warms milk for hot chocolate, and she sits on one of the stools at the breakfast counter. They talk about nothing and everything. Their alma maters, the best age to start swimming lessons, favorite bands of the 90′s, and it’s unencumbered. Natural. She should be unsettled, but it’s only one night—a fleeting step outside of her life. He kisses the dollop of whipped cream off of her lips, laughs when she wraps her legs around his torso and encourages him to take them back to the bedroom.

She waits until he falls into a deep sleep before she gingerly extricates herself from his arms. (He snores; it’s muted and oddly endearing.) She wants to linger, but it isn’t a good idea. This has been a lovely game of pretend, she tells herself, though the peace she’s felt, the diaphanous sigh of happiness in her chest seems very real. These are thoughts she _never _thinks, however. She can’t.

She leaves her card on his nightstand on a whim, her personal number scribbled on the back with a thank you. This is dangerous, but she can’t bring herself to cut all ties, not yet. She hopes he won’t call. (She hopes he will.)

On the cab ride home, she turns on her phone. There are a dozen texts and messages from Mary Margaret, from Emma, from Henry. She understands how worried they would have been, but they weren’t what she needed. She didn’t need to mark this anniversary with yet another tearful memorial of what she should have had but was stolen from her by a drunk driver more than a decade ago. This time, she wanted to forget. She wanted to live in a moment where her perpetual grief didn’t exist, where the wisp of second chances was within reach.

But the moment has passed and it’s now time to return to reality.

**~FIN~**


	14. Incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He isn't her Robin, but he still reads her like an open book. And the hard truth he sees there neatly slices her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+/PG  
Genres: Season 6 Canon Divergence (really more a missing scene), Angst, Wish!Robin

**INCOMPLETE**

He’s on the other side of the threshold when she opens her door, leaning with his elbow pressed up against the frame. He glowers at her, accusation twitching in his pale eyes, and her pulse missteps for several beats. No matter how she’s told herself that this man is nothing more than a stranger, no matter how unmoved she had been by their first (_only_) kiss, her body still sings when he is near.

“It’s time you tell me everything,” he says, pushing past her into the house without an invitation. “You owe me that much.”

She closes the door, closes her eyes and steels herself for whatever recriminations he’ll aim at her. She’s not undeserving; she knows she hasn’t been fair to him from the start. But it’s getting overwhelming, this continuous demand on her to atone for her errors and yet eternally barred from redemption. She’s let him go, finally accepting that he is not what she was hoping for. Can’t he do the same for her?

“What do you want to know?” Her question is embarrassingly tentative as they settle opposite one another on the sofa. She doesn’t have a caustic retort at the ready as a defense, not like she used to. Not since she ripped that twilight out of herself.

His gaze is a weapon, an implement of torture as he glares at her. “Start at the beginning.”

“Of what?” Does he want her story with Robin—the one that isn’t in the book? The one he asked after when the notion of a fresh start still hung between them like a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp.

He shakes his head, muscles in his jaw flexing. “Of all of it,” he says. “And Regina, don’t leave anything out.”

It’s strange—him threatening her. Her Robin had only done that once, when he thought she might still be on her vengeance quest against Snow. But he’d quickly rescinded his sincere but reluctant warning when she proved to be after another life (her own). He was guileless and she formidable. The roles are now reversed.

She begins with the tale of a young noblewoman in love with a stable boy. She details how a shared secret was the impetus of a lifetime of hatred, of murder. Magic and darkness. And the Curse. He knows much of this already, but is silent as she recounts every pain, ever black deed. She talks about Henry, about the Savior, about grasping at the frail thread of hope that she could change. That she doesn’t have to play the part of monster anymore. She admits to the stumbles along the way. Her mistakes.

She tells him about Robin. This too, he knows about, but his knowledge of his other self has been painted in broad strokes. She adds the finer points now, hoping he’ll understand that she hadn’t lied. Robin _did_ have a good life, despite the adversities he faced—adversities that would have broken a lesser man. Robin hadn’t been a lesser man.

She is aware of her wet face as she recites, in a low, breathy voice, the moment of his death and the subsequent fallout. Roland’s return to the Enchanted Forest. Her grief so opaque that she lost perspective. But instead of lashing out against the happiness of others—happiness she was yet again denied—she tore herself in two. She rid of herself of the monster who was (and is) at the root of all the ills she’s suffered.

When she’s exhausted everything, when she sags at almost boneless against the sofa, Robin glances down and away, sucking the inside of his cheeks. He says nothing for a minute, two, and then finally looks at her. There’s no compassion in his gaze. No empathy. Only indictment and she wants to fold into herself; she wants to shrink, to make herself less of a target for the barbed arrow he’s preparing to fire at her.

“Do you know what I find baffling?” His tone is tempered iron.

She braces herself. She can’t begin to predict what part of her sordid tale has raised his ire. “What?”

He lets out a soft, brittle laugh. “That you thought you’d find a fresh start with me, that I’d somehow become him,” he says, “when you aren’t even the woman he fell in love with.”

Her brows pinch together in confusion. “Of course I’m the same—”

“The hell you are!” Robin’s on his feet. “You literally ripped the darkness out of you, Regina. This—” he gestures at her, “—is just a _piece_ of the woman he loved. A pale shadow.”

She opens her mouth to argue, to explain that she’s exactly the woman her Robin believed she would become, but his doppelganger talks over her.

“He was a good man, I’ll give you that,” he says. “Maybe better than anything I could be. I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care. Our lives were—are—very different because he got to have Marian and I didn’t. But I will tell you this—” Robin takes a step toward her, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him, “—before then, before Marian, we were the same man. And I can say with absolute certainty that you, as you are now, couldn’t have loved him. You couldn’t have handled his dark past. You couldn’t even handle it in yourself!”

His words have flayed her open, exposed her, wounded and bleeding. She can’t breathe. She can’t speak.

He makes a derisive sound. “That’s why the kiss meant nothing. I may not be him, but you are definitely not _her_.”

He leaves her with that parting shot reverberating through her chest. He can’t be right. He _can’t_ be.

But what if he is?

**~FIN~**


End file.
